


Shame

by Cassiopeia_Kass



Series: Coming to Light [1]
Category: Andromeda (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark Past, Drama, Episode Related, Getting Together, Harper's Past, Kidnapped, M/M, Nightmares, Past Slavery, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season 1, Sick Character, Slice of Life, abusive past relationship, old enemies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-06-12
Updated: 2001-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:55:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 66,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23977072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cassiopeia_Kass/pseuds/Cassiopeia_Kass
Summary: Harper tries to keep his past in the past, but his past isn't cooperating.
Relationships: Seamus Harper/Dylan Hunt
Series: Coming to Light [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1728781
Kudos: 3





	Shame

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the first season.
> 
> (This is [Viridian5](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viridian5) posting for Cassiopeia, a friend of mine who's long gone out of fandom but left me as a kind of caretaker of her _Andromeda_ fics. They've been linked at my personal site for a very long time but I wanted to share them with the fandom more.)

Seamus Harper sat bolt upright, sweating and shaking, just conscious enough to keep the cry of terror from becoming a full-fledged scream.

"Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream," he chanted and shook the dream away. Same old, same old, although this one hadn’t visited him in a while. He supposed it was the natural side effect of having somebody else’s memories stuffed into his brain, but knowing now in graphic detail what had happened to his cousins Declan and Siobhan only made the dream that much worse. He _knew_ what the Magog did, he had known since childhood, but watching it happen to hundreds and hundreds of people made his gut roil. Watching it happen to them in his dreams was even worse.

And he stank now of fear sweat. Rolling out of bed, he padded toward the facilities attached to his quarters, stripping off the sodden shirt and shorts he had worn to bed. The mirror wasn’t a friend. "You look like you’re strung out," he told his reflection irritably. Strung out on ‘iamon or ‘dust, or something worse, and the bruises on his torso made it look like he’d compounded the binge by allowing a drunken S’aelyri to use a tattoo needle on him. His wrists looked nasty, but they felt better, at least. Turning his head, he peered at the data socket in his neck, grimaced. At least that was working fine, now, he’d run a diagnostic once they’d cut him loose of the med-deck. A few reddened spots, leftover burns, but hey, that wasn’t so bad. A little burn gel, they’d be fine.

His head, now, that was another worry. Leaning forward, Harper peered at bloodshot eyes, morbidly wondering if his eyes would start to bleed anytime soon. His skull felt weirdly tender and sore, even though Trance had told him repeatedly that the sensation was--he grimaced again--all in his head.

Of course it was in his head, along with the memories of having had several thousand extra gigabytes of data that didn’t belong there. And he still had the damn headache to prove it.

Sudden movement in the mirror and he spun, hurled himself forward against a solid shape hard enough to knock it against the wall before freeing himself to run.

He wasn’t fast enough, a big hand closed around his upper arm. "Harper!" Hoarse, breathless voice.

Sanity returned, and he shivered, closed his eyes. Damn. Damn and damn and damn. Dylan. "What!" Truculently. Best defense was a good offense, hadn’t he heard that somewhere? An old vid? 

Deep intake of breath. "What the _hell_ was that!?"

Great. Great. Dylan was prickly about things like rank and knocking him into a wall was likely to set off--well, he wasn’t sure, but he was sure he didn’t want whatever it was. 

"You startled me." He muttered it, rolled his shoulders and regretted it. It only made his head hurt worse. Offense, yeah, offense, and he turned around, tried to forget that he was standing there naked in front of a man who was taller, broader, and better dressed. "What the hell are you doing in my quarters?"

Dylan took in another breath, rubbed his breastbone. "I, ah, was concerned, wanted to see how you were doing."

Concerned? Concerned? Since when was Dylan concerned? "I’m fine," he snapped. "I’m going to take a shower, thanks for asking." He straightened his shoulders, turned back toward the bathroom and tried for a dignified stride.

He wasn’t sure how well it worked, but once inside the stall, he let himself slide down and put his forehead on his knees.

Now, his head not only hurt worse, but he could hear his own heartbeat, even over the shower.

With any luck, Dylan would be gone when he finally got out.

A guy could hope.

  


* * *

That had to be one of the strangest moments bar none of his entire to date association with Seamus Zelazny Harper, Dylan reflected, his eyes on the discarded clothing that had led him to the bathroom cubicle. He really hadn’t meant to startle Harper, or invade his privacy, or whatever the hell he’d done that had triggered Harper’s attack on him. 

For someone so compact, Harper packed one hell of a punch. He rubbed his breastbone again, winced. If Harper hadn’t been so intent on escape, he could have done some real damage. As it was, he suspected his chest and ribs were going to be a bit sensitive for a few days. Not good for the ego, but a well-timed lesson.

Mental note, watch out for Harper in a fight. Bending, he picked up the discarded shirt and shorts, caught a whiff and grimaced. Tossed the offending articles toward the corner of the room and a pile of what he hoped was dirty laundry. 

The fact was, Harper still didn’t look as if he were fine. Not that Dylan expected him to, not after the last several days, but passing by Harper’s quarters, he’d heard a sound. Hell, he’d heard a cry. 

He’d had to think about it for a long moment before overriding the privacy control on Harper’s door. It didn’t seem likely that Harper would welcome his intrusion if nothing were wrong--an understatement, actually, considering the way his ribs felt at the moment--but given Harper’s reaction to the massive violation of his brain, he finally decided he’d have to bear with bad temper.

He hadn’t expected physical attack. Or the stark terror that had transformed Harper’s expression just before he’d whirled. That cry he’d heard made more sense, and that troubled him. Nightmares were to be expected, given what Harper had in his head, but that terror had bled into waking time.

He’d thought Harper was past that.

Military training made him twitch the covers into place. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing or why he was doing it. Harper wouldn’t thank him for it, of that he _was_ sure. And now that he thought about it, the shower had been running rather a long time. 

Even the bed stank. It took a bit of rummaging, but he found clean bedding and remade it. Studied the pile of apparently clean clothing that was stacked on the desk, and abstracted another shirt and pair of shorts from it. The colors alone were enough to wake the dead, he thought, mordant humor, but perhaps Harper wouldn’t mind. 

"Harper," he called, taking a step inside the alcove that led to the bathroom. A thump from the shower stall made him nervous. The shower shut off and the door slid open slightly to allow Harper to peer out at him. "I, ah, thought you’d like these," he said, feeling incalculably foolish. He wasn’t Harper’s mother, even if Harper were still young enough to require one. Not that he knew that for a fact, he had no idea of how old Harper was.

Which thought led places that he didn’t want to examine. Harper didn’t talk a great deal about his childhood, the details came out at odd times in odd revelations, and the images saddened him. Not just for Harper, but for all of Earth’s children, of course, but the more he came to know Harper, the more personal that sadness became.

Harper stared at him blankly from the shower. Disconnected gaze, blank expression.

It worried him. "Harper?" 

"Oh." A jerky nod. "Fine. Thanks. I’m fine, you can leave now."

Perversely, that made him less willing to do so. He put the clothing down on the shelf, backed out of the alcove. The shower went back on again, which was typically Harper and moderately annoying, and only made him more determined to outwait Harper.

Which also took a while, but Harper finally emerged, damp hair spiking even more wildly than usual, wearing the shirt and shorts Dylan had brought him. A truculent look warned him that Harper’s temper was still active, and he kept his own expression mild. 

"What do you want?" Chin up, body radiating defense or offense or something. That was Harper when he felt vulnerable.

He considered that for a moment. "I told you, I just wanted to be sure that you’re all right." Mild tone, too, but Harper’s scowl only deepened. 

"I told you, I’m fine. I’m even clean." Harper looked at his bed, closed his eyes briefly. "And I’m even neat, looks like." Not quite angry, but definitely ruffled.

"I thought you might like clean sheets." Mild still, but Harper whirled toward him, stopped cold, his expression gone stony. Not what he’d intended, not at all. "Harper, it’s not a big deal."

It didn’t seem to help. "Thought these were _my_ quarters," Harper snarled. "My private quarters."

All right. Misstep. Dylan nodded, sat down on the chair he’d cleared, reducing the difference in height. Towering over Harper wasn’t going to help the situation. "They are. And if you feel I’ve violated that privacy, I apologize. You’ve been through a lot in the last few days." Keeping his voice pitched to ease back the confrontation. He hoped. 

Right step this time, Harper seemed to back down fractionally, he nodded at Dylan, albeit grudgingly. "Yeah. Well. So?"

So? Good question. What the hell _was_ he still doing here? He rose, shrugged. "So. Get some sleep. We’re heading out tomorrow."

Harper ran a hand through his already wild hair, making it wilder. "What the hell do you care anyway? Oh, wait, I get it, you lose your engineer if I implode, right?" Not quite a sneer.

He wasn’t sure why that stung as badly as it did. "Is that what you think?"

"I didn’t notice a lot of overwhelming concern when I was coughing up blood." This time, a genuine sneer. "Of course, in that condition, I wasn’t any use, right?"

It felt like he’d been punched in the solar plexus. Maybe he wasn’t the most demonstrative of people, but-- "That’s not fair." He said it quietly. "You don’t know what I felt, and you were far too ill to know what I said."

They stared at each other in silence for a moment, and Harper’s gaze dropped first. "Sorry." Muttered.

That stung, too, and the whole moment was becoming far more confusing than he could handle. "Get some sleep," he said curtly, and started to move past Harper.

Harper looked at him sidelong, and there was such naked misery there it halted him. Brought his hand out to clasp Harper’s shoulder. "It’s all right," he murmured, not sure why. "Get some sleep." 

He saw faint surprise, something akin to gratitude, and then Harper’s expression went shuttered on him. "Yeah." Faint voice. "Thanks."

For what, he wondered. One squeeze to Harper’s shoulder and he escaped, stood outside the closed door uncertainly before turning toward his own quarters.

What the hell had just happened? He was damned if he knew. He was damned if he knew why he cared. 

Trouble was, it was those things you didn’t know that waited in the dark to trip you up. He was going to have to work hard to keep his footing.

  


* * *

The next few days, Dylan blessedly left Harper alone. Well, not alone, exactly, but as alone as possible, considering that all six of them were frequently on the bridge at the same time. 

Harper appreciated that. He appreciated the fact that even though Beka was clearly worried about him, she didn’t pry, didn’t bug him, didn’t knock him down and demand to know what was wrong with him.

It was just the nightmares, nothing more.

As bad as what had happened to his cousins had been, it was worse dreaming it with the knowledge of his adult self. Worse still with the addition of the memories of the Brandenburg massacre superimposed over his own. 

He kept seeing Declan and Siobhan there, and his parents, and he was going to have to dig into the medical data to find some way to sleep dreamlessly for a while. 

The circles under his eyes were getting pretty damn obvious. Now instead of looking like he’d just come off a four day ‘dust binge, he looked like he was hooked on ‘iamon and starving for a fix. 

Well, maybe not that bad, he mused, and glanced over his shoulder to find Beka giving him a narrow look. He blinked at her innocently and she frowned at him.

Looked like his immunity from interrogation was about to wear off. Sighing, he turned back to the console and tried to pay attention to the readings there. He could do this in his sleep anyway, it didn’t take much, and that was a good thing, because the nightmares were sucking his energy dry.

He nearly leapt out of his skin when a hand closed over his shoulder. "Walk with me," Dylan said softly, firmly.

"I’m--"

"Walk with me." 

No arguing with that tone. He sighed and got up, followed Dylan out into the corridor. Down the corridor. Around the turn in the corridor. He tensed, but no, they weren’t heading toward the med-deck, they were heading toward Dylan’s quarters. 

"What did you want?" he finally asked irritably, since Dylan was doing the strong, silent thing.

"To talk with you," Dylan told him remotely and stopped at his own door. "Privately."

Privately? He regarded Dylan warily. "About what?"

Vague gesture and the door opened. Dylan stood back to let him go in first, which made the skin between his shoulder blades twitch. Which was ridiculous, of course, Dylan didn’t fight dirty, but it didn’t stop him from turning to face Dylan immediately. "So?"

Dylan eyed him, moved over to a cabinet and opened it. "Drink?"

He frowned. "Uh. Yeah. Sure. What is it?"

"Something you’ve never had, I’m sure." Drily. "Aged Scotch whiskey. Not much of it left, and when this is gone, I don’t think we’ll find its like again."

Harper blinked, amazed. "You’ve been saving it?"

Faint smile and Dylan pulled out two glasses. "I suppose I have. I hadn’t thought about it consciously." The glasses thumped on the top of the cabinet, and Dylan poured about two fingers worth of amber liquid into each one. "I think you’ll enjoy it. It’s not as rough as that Ckrech liquor you were drinking a while back."

"Didn’t know you drank," Harper said and accepted the glass Dylan held toward him. 

"I’m High Guard, not a monk," Dylan told him, dry again. "Find a seat."

Oh, yeah. Dylan wanted to talk. "Plying me with booze?"

"I thought it might make you less likely to punch me again." 

Faint smile to take the sting out of it, but he felt his face heat up anyway. "I didn’t punch you."

"Sure you did. With your entire body." One corner of Dylan’s mouth lifted, inviting him to share the joke. "Serves me right for sneaking up on you."

Something tight inside his chest loosened a little. Okay, so Dylan wasn’t going to grill him. Dylan wasn’t going to... well, whatever he might have expected from a Dylan intent on getting to the bottom of why his engineer looked like an ‘iamon addict days away from the last fix. He sat down a little stiffly, took a sip of the Scotch. He’d heard about Scotch, of course, he wasn’t an idiot, but it was fabulously rare and hideously expensive. It felt smooth on his tongue, hot going down, but it was a good heat, the kind you only got from the finest booze, usually the kind you couldn’t afford. 

Dylan sat down on the edge of his bed, smiled a little. "You should see your expression."

His face got hot again. "Yeah?"

"You look like you just caught sight of the Promised Land."

"Or tasted it." But he felt easier. Took another sip, savoring it. "You wanted to talk to me?"

Dylan’s expression shifted fractionally. "Yeah." A sip of Scotch, judicious look. "You look like hell, Harper."

"Hey, not everybody can look like you," he shot back, running on instinct.

It surprised a brief grin out of Dylan. "You aren’t sleeping."

"Wrong." He took another sip. "I am sleeping."

Narrow look. "You aren’t sleeping well."

Ah. Well. He shrugged. Amazing. The Scotch shouldn’t be any more intoxicating than anything else he’d ever had, but he was already starting to feel a little buzz. Looked at the glass, decided the hell with it, and took another sip. "Yeah, so?"

"So now I’m worried about someone I’d like to think of as a friend as well as my engineer."

His hand shook suddenly, he had to rest his elbow on his knee. He hadn’t even been sure Dylan liked him at all. "I’m okay. I’m just... you know, all that shit in my head."

"Still have the headache?" Dylan’s voice was soft.

He shot a startled look that way, steadied his hand enough to take another sip. "Well, mostly. It sort of ghosts around, here and there. Mostly when I’m tired."

"Which should be a lot of the time, from the way you look." Dylan leaned forward, studied his own glass. "I admit, I don’t have any easy answers. There isn’t a lot of medical help out there we can use, we’re sort of stuck helping each other through these things. But I can’t help unless you’re honest with me, Harper." He looked at Harper.

Oh, great, the guilt trip. He took another sip, avoided Dylan’s gaze. "It’ll pass."

"Right." Dylan sounded tired suddenly. "And in the meantime, you look like hell, feel like hell. God, I hate this." Sudden violent movement and Dylan was on his feet, pacing.

The sudden movement triggered something inside Harper; he shot up, hands coming up defensively, fabulously rare and hideously expensive Scotch splashing on his arm, on the floor of Dylan’s quarters.

Dylan gave him a startled look and he began to shake, shame and exhaustion sneaking up on him. He’d just spilled a king’s ransom, he thought and looked helplessly at Dylan. Dylan’s king’s ransom, no less, not even his own. "Sorry, sorry--"

Dylan took a cautious step toward him. "It’s all right, Harper." Quietly. "It’s all right."

His head felt like it was caught in a vise. "The hell it is!" Harshly. "I just wasted it all--" He brought his sleeve to his mouth, sucked on it. The pain spiked and he reeled, was caught and held snugly against a larger body.

"Easy, easy." Quiet voice, strong hands, one of which steadied him, one of which took the glass and set it aside. "This way, okay? I just want you to lie down, I want to get Trance in here."

He couldn’t see through the pain, he squeezed his eyes shut and let himself be guided. "She’s not a medic." Weird, he hadn’t known Dylan could be gentle like this.

"She’s studying." 

Lunatic laughter, and it took a minute to realize that it was his. "I’m in some deep stuff, huh."

"I refuse to believe that." Steady voice, calm voice, and those hands, still gentle. 

He wondered if Dylan did this for all the hysterics he ran into. The edge of the bed thumped his shins and Dylan turned him carefully, let him sink down on his own. "I can go to the med-deck." Surrendering.

"We’ll see." Dylan’s voice shifted downward, he felt a hand tug at his boot and lifted his foot obligingly. Repeated for the other foot and let Dylan nudge him back to the pillows.

It felt good. And embarrassing. "Isn’t there some High Guard regulation about letting civilians use your bed?"

"Depends on what they’re using it for," Dylan told him. "Rommie, I need Trance here on the double."

Oh, great. Beka would hear that and be down here guns blazing. "Quietly," he said desperately. "Don’t get Beka stirred up, okay?"

Brief touch on his hand, reassurance. "Did you get that, Rommie?" Dylan wasn’t arguing. 

Dylan wasn’t arguing. He felt ridiculously grateful for that. Dylan had been on the wrong side of Beka’s temper a time or two, he knew what it was like.

Footsteps moved away from the bed and he let himself sink into the comfort of being horizontal. It eased the throbbing in his head, and when the footsteps came back, he opened his mouth to tell Dylan he was fine. Something cool touched his forehead, bringing him upright--oh, bad idea, very bad idea--and Dylan pushed him back down. "Lie still!" Exasperated. 

"I’m lying still, I am." The coolness was a damp cloth, and it felt good, even if it called up a nearly lost fragment of memory. He must have been very small and sick, and his mother had put a damp cloth on his face. Of course, that one had smelled of the pollutants in their water supply, and this one only smelled clean, and the thought of Dylan as his mother nearly made him giggle.

He managed to cough instead, which would probably freak Dylan out anyway, but less, he hoped, than giggling.

"Harper!" Exasperated again. "What the hell is so funny?"

He winced under the cloth. "I don’t suppose you’d accept hysteria, would you?"

Dylan snorted.

"Never mind." He was actually comfortable, abruptly, and sleep was creeping up on little catkin feet and getting ready to clobber him with a mallet. "Don’t let Trance wake me up, y’mind?" Blearily.

"I’ll try." Dry tone, by which he guessed Dylan had as much luck as he ever did getting Trance to accept direction. Good enough, he said, or tried to, and then sank under, feeling weirdly safe for no reason he could grasp.

  


* * *

"He’s going to be all right," Trance said, rather decisively, but then her expression shifted to confusion. "But I’m not sure why."

Dylan sighed. "Trance--"

"No, really all right." She smiled down at Harper’s sleeping self. "He’s integrating, that’s all."

It gave him a little chill. "All that excess data? I thought we purged it." Another chill. "What about his sanity?"

"Well," she dimpled at him, "no worse than usual."

He rubbed his forehead. Great. Now _he_ was getting a headache. Even asleep, Harper looked badly used, seriously exhausted. "So how do we help him in the meantime? Any ideas from your reading?"

She frowned again. "The dreams are pretty bad."

He bit back the desire to snap at her. "Yes, I would imagine so."

"I need to do some research. Humans can’t go without dreams, but we need to find some way of breaking the worst dream cycles." Her brows drew together. "I suppose one of us could stay with him when he sleeps, see if something nonintrusive would shift the dream cycle."

"What about medication?" He was _definitely_ getting a headache. 

"Most drugs would suppress dreaming." She gave him a sidelong look. "Which _would_ be harmful."

Marvelous. Fabulous. Harper reacted truculently to anything that smacked of concern, and the only current answer was for someone to watch him sleep. Great. Wonderful. "All right," he said shortly, "Do the research, see what you can come up with."

Beka had the bridge, which would keep her from storming down here to see what the hell he was doing to Harper. She frequently showed decidedly familial protective instincts toward both Harper and Trance, which sometimes baffled him, at least with regard to Harper. Harper was, perhaps, the least helpless individual he’d met in--well, not that he’d met that many people in the last few hundred years, of course, but in a long, long while.

Trance gave him a long look. "He’ll be all right, Dylan." 

He nodded, tried to manufacture a smile. "Good."

A quick pat to his arm and she was gone, leaving him baffled and staring after her. What the hell had that been about, he wondered, and looked back at Harper. The bruises and abrasions on Harper’s wrists were healing nicely, which only brought to mind the bruises he’d seen when he’d startled Harper a few nights back.

They didn’t seem to bother Harper as much as the headache and the nightmares, he had to admit. Tough little bastard, that was Harper, tough and cocky, and that was part of what troubled him so badly about this. He was used to finding Harper annoying, and unused to finding Harper vulnerable. He wasn’t used to worrying about Harper.

"Quit starin’ at me." Muzzily.

He blinked, felt his mouth quirk. "I thought you were asleep."

Harper lifted one corner of the cloth to peer at him. "Do I look funny or something when I sleep?"

"No." His mouth twitched again. "No funnier than usual." 

The cloth went back down. "Ha ha."

"I’m kidding." He repented of his humor suddenly. "You don’t look funny."

"Not everyone can look like a High Guard hero." Sleepy voice again.

"Or wants to," he said suddenly, surprising himself. "Go back to sleep."

Harper shifted, stretched a little. He found himself, weirdly enough, looking at Harper’s feet, thin socks and all. "Trance been here?" 

"You just missed her." He surprised himself again. "Why don’t you take off the coverall, get under the blankets."

The cloth came off and Harper squinted at him. "What?"

"You might as well be comfortable," he said reasonably. 

Harper frowned, looked down at his toolbelt. Sighed. "Okay. Good point." He pushed himself up, unzipped the coverall, unfastened the tool belt and somehow shimmied out of both without ever getting off the bed. Almost as an afterthought, he peeled the socks off, and dropped them on the floor.

The entire process was enthralling, and why in the hell this should be so baffled Dylan. He’d seen Harper naked just a few nights ago, and the only thing that had done was make him feel oddly protective. Although he thought that was more Harper’s vulnerability than Harper’s nudity. 

Harper shifted to free the blankets and slip under, but swayed, put a hand to his head briefly, wincing.

Something useful for him to do, he got up, steadied Harper and tugged the bedclothes down. Harper’s hair felt weirdly soft, for all those spikes, and he ruffled it lightly, eased Harper down gently. "Go back to sleep, I’ll wake you later."

A sigh, and god, that vulnerable expression again, not quite gratitude, not quite misery. "Yeah. Thanks." 

Dylan nearly smiled again. Instead, he took the cloth, put it back over Harper’s eyes; Harper put a hand up to adjust it, sighed again.

And just that quickly, he could swear Harper went out again, body going slack. If only Harper would always follow orders like that. 

Interrupting the dream cycle--he wondered if it would be enough just to disturb Harper’s sleep a bit, a touch or a pat on the cheek. It had worked for him, in times past, although he hadn’t needed it.

Not like Harper did.

Slow regular breaths from Harper. Well, hell, he had some reading to do, he could stay here for a while. Trance could spell him later, and he supposed Beka would have to be enlisted as well.

Under no circumstances was he going to let anyone breathe a word of this to Tyr.

Harper could thank him later.

So, he settled down to read, feeling oddly uncomfortable and as if he were shirking duty, which wasn’t true. Perhaps it was simply that watching someone sleep was oddly intimate, something he’d generally only done with lovers, never with shipmates. 

There’d never been any need, 300 years ago. 

He lost himself in reading for a while, but his senses were on red alert; when Harper moaned in sleep, he was up on his feet and across the room, leaning over the bed to touch Harper’s cheek. Small sound in Harper’s throat, but his face relaxed again, he stilled, sank back into sleep. Small victory, Dylan thought, pleased, it had worked. He stood for a moment, but evidently the dream had shifted or broken; Harper’s eyes moved beneath eyelids translucent with exhaustion, but he didn’t make a sound.

Good. Great. Pleased, Dylan returned to his reading. 

  


* * *

"Okay, how did you get him to talk?" Beka was truculent, too. 

It made Dylan tired suddenly. Maybe it was something this universe did, training them in the art of the offense. "I didn’t."

She leaned against the wall outside his quarters and scowled at him. "Dylan, Harper’s in there sacked out on your bed. How did you _do_ that?"

Was everyone in a bad mood, he wondered briefly. "He didn’t talk. He spilled his scotch and--" Helpless shrug. "I made him lie down, that’s all, and he was doing badly enough he let me do it. I didn’t coldcock him."

"Didn’t think you had." Her eyes narrowed briefly and he wondered what she was thinking. "Well, whatever you did, thanks. I won’t have to torture it out of him now."

She was joking. At least he hoped she was joking. "Good. If you keep track, you can tell when the nightmare hits, just-- just touch his shoulder or his face, that seems to do the trick. Rouses him just far enough out of REM to break it without waking him up."

Her eyes narrowed again for a moment. "Got it." She studied him. "No offense, Dylan, but you aren’t usually the sensitive type. How’d you figure this out?"

Exasperation welled up. "I’m not a monster, for God’s sake, and I’ve commanded before. I _notice_ things, it’s just not always my business to intervene in them. Oh, and let’s leave Rev and Tyr out of this, shall we? I don’t think this is a good time for Rev to be around him, and Tyr...." He let his voice trail off.

Beka grimaced. "Oh, yeah." She tilted her head, studied him again, and one corner of her mouth curved. "Good thinking."

He quelled his annoyance. "Thank you."

Brief grin and Beka went in to take her shift. Harper had been asleep now for four hours without interruption and hopefully they could keep him asleep for however long he needed before he woke naturally. Dylan watched the door close and headed back to the bridge.

It was going to be difficult, on a ship this small, to keep Tyr’s attention diverted, and how he was going to handle Rev... he wasn’t sure.

He wasn’t entirely comfortable with Rev himself at the moment, although he would grant that Rev’s intentions had seemed to be good through the last near disaster. He just couldn’t forget that Rev had gone into the med-deck where Harper was restrained and raving, never mind that Rev had actually managed to induce some surface calm with the mantra he’d insisted Harper recite.

Well meant, yes, but potentially one of the triggers for what was happening now, and that made his skin prickle a bit.

Paranoia, he told himself.

It would pass. This would all pass, and Harper would be just as maddening and annoying as ever, and this unwelcome rush of feeling, this fascination, would dissipate.

Maybe.

A man could hope.

  


* * *

Warmth. Comfort. And the smell of someone else. Harper burrowed more deeply into the pillow, his half-conscious mind trying to identify that scent; when recognition hit, he jerked upright and blinked in confusion.

Dylan’s bare feet were on the bed, and the chair had been drawn close; Dylan, wearing some of those sleep pants and a robe, looked up from reading and arched an eyebrow at him, smiled. "How’s the head?"

Harper blinked again. The headache was gone, at least mostly. Muscles in his neck were stiff and sore from bracing against it for days, but nothing a hot shower wouldn’t fix. "Okay." A yawn caught him off guard and his jaw creaked. "How long did I sleep?"

Dylan’s mouth twitched and he glanced at the cron. "Nearly twenty-two hours."

He’d slept an entire day’s cycle? In Dylan’s bed? His jaw dropped slightly and he stared at Dylan, who only chuckled. "You needed it, Harper."

Well, duh. But in Dylan’s bed? He blinked again. "Wow."

"It’s very unnerving, actually." But Dylan’s mouth kept twitching. "Beka said she was sure you were dead, I had to keep pointing out the fact that you were still breathing."

"You weren’t here all that time," he said, and heard the accusatory note in his voice.

"No." Dylan put down the reader, stretched. "Beka and Trance took shifts when I slept." Faint smile. "I threw a sleep mat down over there. I wasn’t sure how you’d take it if I stretched out next to you."

Sudden rush of... something at that image. Talk about unnerving. "Took shifts?"

Brief grin. "Ah, we figured out a way to shift you out of the nightmare sequence. Just a touch or a pat, and it roused you just enough to shift into a different REM phase, I guess."

That was too weird. He and Dylan stared at each other for a minute before he edged over to the side of the bed, too aware that he was wearing only his skivvies. It hadn’t bothered him... yesterday, or whenever it had been. His head had hurt too badly to think about it.

Dylan smiled and pointed toward the bathroom. "Beka brought you a change of clothes, and Trance brought up some of those meat pastries you like, you can heat them up, if you like. And there’s kaff, I’m afraid we need to replenish the real stuff."

He nodded blankly, put his feet on the floor. Triple unnerving. Change of clothes, shower and breakfast. He didn’t get this kind of treatment from any of his one- or two-night stands. Ever. 

Dylan picked up the reader and eyed him for a moment. "Why don’t you shower," he said kindly, "Clear the cobwebs out."

Cobwebs. Oh, yeah. He knew what those were. He thought he did, anyway. "Okay." Meekly.

Dylan’s eyes went back to the reader. "I’ll heat up the pastries, they’ll be hot when you’re done."

Dylan was fixing him breakfast. He was showering in Dylan’s bathroom. This was definitely freaking him out. One more nod and he managed to find get to his feet, find his clothes, and wobble toward Dylan’s bathroom.

A hot shower cleared his head and loosened the knots in his neck and shoulders; by the time he emerged again, he felt-- well, almost normal. Not quite normal. Normal wasn’t even in the equation, not with Dylan sitting in bare feet and out of uniform while he slept in Dylan’s bed. That was so weird on so many levels, he couldn’t begin to categorize them all.

Dylan was pouring kaff into a mug when he finally got the balls to leave the bathroom. Still barefoot. Still in sleep pants and robe. "Want some?"

Harper nodded, wadding his discarded clothes into an untidy ball. "Um, yeah, thanks." 

Dylan handed him the full mug, reached for another. "Food’s hot." Lifted his chin in the direction of the plate.

His stomach rumbled, reminding him why he felt hollow. Weird or not, he grabbed one of the pastries and wolfed it. Dylan grinned, pointed him at a chair.

Fine by him. Even the kaff was good, second rate artificial coffee that it was, and he closed his eyes briefly, savoring it. It at least had caffeine in it. And that was great. 

He no longer had a headache, and that was great. The hell of it was, Dylan’s idea had worked, or so it seemed. He felt better. Hell, he felt great. He was starving. Two more pastries vanished; he was glad Trance had apparently ‘seen’ his hunger, glanced up to find Dylan watching him with a peculiar expression. "What?"

Dylan shook his head. "Nothing. I was just thinking you look one helluva lot better."

Okay, so he was paranoid, too. Taking another bite, he nodded, belatedly held the plate out. "You want one?" Grudgingly.

"No, thanks, I already ate." 

Dylan’s tone was mild, but it jarred him a little, the realization that he was practically guarding the food. He didn’t need to do that these days, he knew that, but evidently the nightmares had involved a lot more of the past than the Magog. Deep breath and he forced himself to relax, to sip at the kaff. "‘S good, you sure?"

Dylan grinned. "I’m sure. We’re already at T’kri, I had to spend the evening at a diplomatic function. Some of the dishes were-- interesting."

Harper grimaced. "Especially the live ones."

"God, yes." Dylan’s tone was heartfelt. "I, ah, had to confess to an unfortunate allergy to get out of those."

He couldn’t help it, he laughed. "You lied!"

"I was diplomatic," Dylan corrected him and stretched his legs out. 

Bare feet. Too weird. And too something else, and he just wasn’t sure he wanted to think about that. Dylan’s feet, like the rest of him, were bigger than Harper’s. The inevitable folk wisdom drifted into his mind and he squashed it. Took another swallow of kaff, wolfed the last pastry, and licked his fingers. "Good stuff." Satisfied.

Another warm look, a smile. "Believe me, I’d have preferred Trance’s pastries to what I did eat." Dylan rubbed his stomach, grimaced. "Serious case of heartburn."

It was really weird, he honestly hadn’t thought Dylan even liked him at all. Thought Dylan was polite, thought Dylan respected what he’d been able to teach himself, and his abilities, but hadn’t liked him. He nodded, a little embarrassed, wondered if Dylan would mind if he had more kaff. "Um, you mind?" Lifting his chin at the carafe. 

"Help yourself." Dylan looked oddly pleased at that.

Who knew what that was about. It made his face warm anyway. He refilled his mug. "So how’s the diplomacy going?"

"Well, we’ve gotten most of our supplies. Joining the Commonwealth, now that’s another issue entirely. A lot of doubletalk." Dylan sounded tired suddenly. "But Beka has a knack for getting their attention." Drily.

He grinned at that, remembering some of Beka’s more memorable moments. "Oh, yeah. I don’t suppose we’re gonna get any, ah, vacation time while we’re here?"

Long look. "What did you have in mind? I don’t think it’s going to make a sterling impression if I have to bail you out again."

Offended, Harper took a sip of his kaff. "You know that wasn’t my fault."

"Hmmm." Dylan gazed at him, eyes narrowing. "You stay out of trouble, I guess it’s fine. I need you to check over the manifest before we leave, but otherwise I can’t think of anything pressing at the moment."

"Nah, the emergencies usually wait until we’re all beat and ready to quit." He smiled sunnily at Dylan’s expression. "It’s true."

Dylan eyed him again, clearly amused, took another sip of kaff. "Don’t you have somewhere to be?"

He laughed outright. "Okay, I get the message. Yeah, I do. Gotta check some stuff, then I’m headed for the fleshpots of T’kri."

"Stay away from the women with tentacles," Dylan advised and got up, walked back toward his bed. "And out of trouble."

"That’s pretty discriminatory coming from an idealist like you," Harper told him and drained his mug. "I’m leaving, I’m leaving," at the look Dylan gave him. "Tentacles can be fun."

"I do not want to hear it." Sternly, but Dylan grinned.

He laughed again, was still laughing when the door closed behind him. 

Beka caught up with him in his quarters. "How are you doing?" 

More suspicion than solicitude, he rather thought and grinned at her. "200 percent better."

"There’s only one hundred percent of anything, you can’t be." But her mouth curved slightly. "You look better."

He shrugged. "That’s because I am. Just needed to get some sleep, I guess."

"Hmm." She folded her arms and studied him. "I oughta smack you, you know."

He feinted, dodged her fist. "Hah. You have to catch me, first. And I’m heading out to the station."

"Says who?"

"Says Dylan, that’s who. As long as I keep from getting arrested again."

"We aren’t going to bail you out this time."

"Sure you would." He grinned and dodged again. "But I don’t think Dylan would."

"You might be surprised." 

He stopped moving, looked at her. There was something odd about her tone. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

"Dylan likes you." 

"Dylan thinks I’m a pain in the ass." But he remembered Dylan saying something about worrying about a friend, felt vaguely guilty.

"But you’re our pain in the ass," Beka told him, and her expression turned gleeful. "And he likes you."

Why did that make him uncomfortable? Just because he hadn’t expected it, had just realized it himself? He liked Dylan well enough, even if he did think Dylan was... well, a little straitlaced. Rigid. Narrow-minded. Gentle. Kind. Concerned. He was losing his fricking mind. "Stuff it," he told Beka succinctly.

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. He’s been worried about you. I have to admit, it makes me think a little better of him, especially after--"

"Beka," he whined, "Leave it the hell alone, I get it, I get it. And I want to really get it, and I won’t be able to get it until I get onstation."

"Oh, get out of here." She grinned at him. "And stay out of the brig."

He mock-saluted and headed out, making his escape while he could.

  


* * *

The dancers were scantily clad and seductive, the clientele was varied and colorful, and the music was loud. Sinking back into the padded booth, Harper took in a long breath, let it out and smiled at the glass of Ollarian ale on the table. Oh, yeah, much better. Eye candy, good ale, and even if the gambling tables didn’t draw him, the music and lights were enough to let a guy forget that the last few weeks had pretty much sucked.

He’d wandered the market ring, found a few things he wanted and dickered with T’kri merchants until he’d gotten the best price. A few new tools, tucked into the pockets of his baggy trousers, some music he’d been coveting for a while, and new earpieces for his player. He’d seen Rev from a distance, and managed to avoid him, which made him feel simultaneously guilty and relieved.

He’d seen Tyr, too, surveying weapons, and avoided him. Tyr’s idea of a good time didn’t intersect with his, and he really needed a good time right now.

He lifted the glass to his lips, swallowed and sighed happily. Oh, yeah, and the dancer on the stand smiled coyly at him as s/he writhed against the pole that anchored the small circle of dance space. He was still trying to determine gender and idly wondering if he cared when a familiar figure caught his attention.

He had to be imagining it, this wasn’t exactly the side of the station he’d have expected Dylan to frequent, but then the guy’s head turned and Dylan’s gaze zeroed in on him.

Damn. Something must be up for Dylan to have tracked him down.

Resigned, he lifted his glass and waited while Dylan cut through the crowd toward him. 

But instead of giving him hell or hauling him off, Dylan only nodded at him and sat down across from him. "Staying out of trouble?"

He blinked, held his hands up harmlessly. "See any cuffs?"

Dylan grinned, gave the dancer a dubious look. "Is that--"

"Dunno," he said and grinned at Dylan’s expression. "I was just trying to figure it out. Could be both."

"Ah." Dylan nodded, shook his head. "Interesting."

Harper nodded and took a sip of his ale. Considered. "Buy you a drink?" 

Not that he expected Dylan to accept. Drinking with his crew, probably right up there on the list of taboos for High Guard officers. Of course, he supposed that having a crew member sleep in the commander’s bed was probably also taboo-- and he was _not_ going to go there, or think about Dylan’s bare feet.

Dylan looked around the cantina. "Why not? What’s good here?" His gaze came back to Harper and he arched an eyebrow questioningly. "What are you having?"

Harper stared, managed to keep his jaw from dropping. "Ah, the Ollarian ale’s good here."

Dylan nodded agreement, surveyed the room again.

A little dazed, Harper crooked a finger at the waitress. "Another one of these," he told her when she arrived. "And keep ‘em coming." She nodded and vanished; Harper turned back to find Dylan watching him with arched eyebrows. "So, uh, were you looking for me?"

Dylan shrugged. "Not specifically." Brief grin. "I’m glad to see you’re staying out of harm’s way, though."

He took another sip of ale, nodded. "Told you I would." Then, "Not specifically?"

Another grin. "I was just walking, Harper. Give the paranoia a rest." The waitress returned with a glass of ale; Dylan studied it dubiously for a moment before taking a drink.

He had to admit a certain pleasure when Dylan’s eyes widened slightly. "Good stuff, hey?"

"Very good," Dylan agreed, and his gaze roamed the room again. "So, this is how you relax." Dry tone.

"Sometimes." Harper took another swallow. "Sometimes it’s how I get wound up."

"Which explains why we had to bail you out that time," Dylan returned, clearly no slouch in the banter department.

He found it kind of enjoyable, actually. Maybe Dylan wasn’t quite as straitlaced as he thought. "Hey, that wasn’t exactly my fault. I didn’t start that fight."

"You certainly helped finish it," Dylan told him and took another sip. "This really _is_ good." Appreciative tone.

He smirked. "I have _some_ good ideas."

"I’d say more than some," Dylan told him and looked around the cantina again. "You’re damned ingenious, Harper. Just because I want to throttle you once a week doesn’t mean I don’t recognize that."

Ah, officer’s training 101, always tell the truth, good or bad, preferably at the same time. Harper snickered and took another swallow of ale, looked up to see Dylan’s face gone to stone. He followed that gaze, saw a girl--a kid, really--leaning against the bar, obviously looking for a customer. Slinky clothing, what there was of it, body art, and the gleam of silver here and there.

It made his belly knot. She was thin, but not thin enough to blame it on ‘iamon, which meant she’d gone hungry in the recent past. This place wasn’t quite far enough on the wrong side of the station to let her sell herself, so he expected she’d get booted out and go hungry again. He glanced at Dylan, saw the clenched jaw muscles, that look that said Dylan found himself surrounded by barbarians, and it stoked his temper.

He crooked a finger at the girl, waited until she saw him and beckoned.

"What the hell--" Dylan’s voice was a hiss.

"Shut up." He looked at Dylan with something that felt like dislike, saw Dylan’s eyes widen slightly, pupils contracted, reacting to it. Reaching into his pocket, he found his credit chip, surreptitiously checked the balance and sighed. At least _he_ wasn’t in danger of starving for lack of funds, he told himself, and looked back to see the girl approaching. Close up, she didn’t look much older than fourteen, if that, and she was clearly somewhat new at this. Someone, someone older, had probably turned her out for the delectation of the babyfuckers. "You got any chips?" he hissed at Dylan.

Brief startled look in return, but his temper cooled a little as Dylan reached into his uniform jacket, slid a pair of chips across to him. The girl swung her hips, leaned against the table. "Jahwanna pahtay?"

Thick accent, not long out of the Well, he thought, and his face got hot, thinking of another time, another day, things he didn’t like to remember or think about. "That bracelet, you wanna sell it?" Long time ago, he told himself, too conscious of Dylan’s gaze on him as he fell back into the old patois, the thick accent, the slang that passed for language in the Well. The girl dickered with him, testing a little, leaning over to make sure he saw everything there was to see on her. Small adolescent breasts, still a touch of starvation belly, and all it did was make him feel sick and mortified. They finally settled on a price, and he made sure it was a good one, closed the bracelet over his wrist when she handed it to him. If someone was running her, at least she’d be okay for today.

"Sall?" Her eyes weren’t fourteen, they were like his had been, hell, like his still were at times, never mind Beka and Trance and now even Dylan.

"Sall," he agreed. "Danke."

She rolled her eyes at him, glanced at Dylan to see if there was a market there and got only a long, thin-lipped look. It didn’t help Harper’s temper to know that Dylan’s anger wasn’t for the kid, wasn’t aimed or intended for her. He watched her leave, swinging her hips in blatant advertisement and his throat got tight, ached.

On her way back to the bar, one of the cantina’s bouncers skillfully guided her to the door without making a fuss and ejected her.

Harper continued until she’d disappeared into the corridor, swallowed hard and shivered suddenly, remembering other corridors, back in the dark times. The thought of finishing his ale made his stomach turn. "Let’s get the hell out of here," he growled. "I’m sick of this place already."

Sharp look and for a moment he thought Dylan would snap at him, but no, for once Dylan kept his mouth shut.

At least until they reached the next T in the corridor. "You mind telling me what the _hell_ that was about?" Dylan demanded. "If we’d called the authorities, we could have gotten her some help."

"Get a clue, Dylan," he snapped, and so, finally, did his temper. "You really don’t get it. How can anybody be so smart and stupid at the same time? The only reason she’s even here is that somebody got bought, Dylan. She’s fresh out of the Well, you can hear it, somebody picked her out, cleaned her up, and put her to work, and that same somebody bought her a station pass and got her through quarantine."

Dylan was staring at him. "Is that how you got out of the Well?" A growl.

Rage flared up, obliterating thought, and his fists clenched with the sweet, hot, urgent desire to pound that complacence and certainty to dust. "You don’t have one fucking clue about me," he told Dylan. "Don’t think you do, because you couldn’t even begin to know what my life was." It was turn and walk or punch Dylan and he opted for the former, strode off blindly, but Dylan’s legs were longer, it was easy to catch up, and it was no gentle grip on his shoulder that spun him around.

"Why don’t you try telling me!" Dylan’s expression was grim, angry. "Why don’t you try giving me a clue, dammit, Harper! I don’t know this universe, I’m 300 years behind."

He did swing then, found his punch blocked and his wrist grabbed, and too late he saw the movement behind Dylan, tried to hurl himself forward even as the truncheon hit the back of Dylan’s head. Someone grabbed him from behind, someone big, and he used his head to break what felt a great deal like a human nose before a solid punch to his face left him reeling, before another blow knocked him down into darkness....

  


* * *

Dylan’s head hurt. Dylan’s wrists and arms hurt. Something smelled like garbage and moisture and coolant leaks and fuel dumps and there was a warm body on top of him, which was probably the only reason he wasn’t freezing, since the floor was decidedly chilly. There was also something tickling his chin, an annoyance that made him rush the return to consciousness if only to put an end to it.

Which was impossible, he realized, once he’d gotten there. He was lying on his arms and wrists, which were bound behind him by something thin and unyielding. He turned his head cautiously, trying to survey his surroundings in the dimness, and something feathery tickled his chin again. Ah, it was hair, it was Harper’s hair, from the scent of it, and how the _hell_ he knew what Harper’s hair smelled like was something he preferred not to examine too closely at this point. Harper’s chin dug into his breastbone, and since it was still slightly bruised from their collision several days earlier, he arched his back and tried, mostly without success, to roll enough to get Harper’s weight off him.

How anyone so compact could feel so heavy, he thought wrathfully and closed his eyes against the throb in his head. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been; he didn’t feel dizzy or sick, but of course he was still lying down. Harper did roll slightly, at least enough to shift his damned chin, and there was a smothered moan from somewhere in the region of Dylan’s chest. 

Great. He wondered how hard Harper had been hit, how hard Harper’s skull was. If Harper vomited on him, he was never going to let Harper forget it. He waited for a moment, but all Harper did was groan again, relieving that concern.

Now where in hell were they? How they’d gotten here could wait, for the moment, he was beginning to lose circulation in his hands. Another shift and Harper rolled off him, not quite dead weight, but not exactly conscious either. Another moan, this one rather heart-rending and pathetic, by which he supposed Harper’s head and arms and wrists felt like his. It gave him a pang, considering that he’d basically just dropped Harper on his already damaged head, but there was no help for it. They had to get out of here.

It wasn’t entirely dark, but what little light there was seemed to be coming small panels set at regular intervals above them. Those panels allowed him to notice that they were apparently in some sort of tunnel or conduit, and wasn’t that just lovely. The NonCommonwealth universe was known to harbor a variety of dangerous vermin in station conduits, and the variety depended on the planetary fauna. He couldn’t, at the moment, recall what variety T’kri harboured, and with any luck, neither of them would find out.

Harper moaned again, and pulled his knees underneath him, which only accentuated just how narrow a space they occupied at the moment. He resisted the urge to kick Harper in his rather charming backside--had he really just thought "charming"?--and rolled on his side to study their current position in better detail. 

"Dammit," Harper groaned. "This is your fault."

Incredulous, Dylan turned his head to peer over his shoulder. "Excuse me?"

Harper turned his head painfully to peer back. "If you hadn’t made me so mad, I’d have paid attention to where the hell we were going."

He couldn’t even address that lunacy at the moment. "We need to get out of here before we meet any of the inhabitants of this tunnel."

"Mr. Obvious," Harper sneered. Or tried. 

Dylan thought it was rather pitiful as Harper sneers went, he looked away again, examined the seams in the wall, tilted his head back

Harper whimpered again. "I’ve got something in my front pockets. If you can get it, I can cut you free. And then you can cut me free."

And gag you with your own belt, Dylan thought wrathfully. "In your front pockets?"

"I’m not sure which one." Rustling sounds and Harper shifted closer, the warmth was now at Dylan’s back. 

He sighed and worked his fingers, found fabric covering muscle and bone. Harper’s size was deceptive; there wasn’t much softness in that compact frame, and why in the hell was he even thinking about this now? 

"Wait a minute," Harper said, "I need to slide down a little." 

Naturally. He felt fabric slide, too, felt yielding flesh rather than muscle, and dear God, was he pawing at Harper’s crotch? Thankfully, Harper shifted again, his fingertips caught the open edge of a pocket. "Down," he said thoughtlessly, thinking backward, then, "No, sorry, up a little, up a little."

Harper obligingly shifted, made a small smothered sound.

"If you throw up on me," Dylan began.

"I’m not going to." Tight voice. 

The shapes beneath his fingertips did not feel particularly useful. "What am I looking for?"

"It’s a spot welder. Thin, narrow." Harper’s voice was pained. "Wait, I think it’s in my other pocket."

Sighing, Dylan tried to help by pulling his wrists up, but only succeeded in fondling parts of Harper he rather thought Harper would prefer not to have fondled, if the vaguely remembered discussion in the corridor was any indication. Clenching his jaw, he more or less patted Harper until he found the other pocket, "Up again," he muttered, felt his fingers brush something cold and thin, something penlike. "Ah, I think this is it. Feels like a pen?"

"Yeah, kinda." Voice still pained. "Can you get it?"

In fact, he was having trouble. "I will." Grimly. The damn thing kept slipping through his fingers just as he got it up to the edge of Harper’s pocket. Concentrate, he told himself, but he was mostly succeeding at stroking Harper’s thigh, which made his palms sweaty for reasons he couldn’t define. Worse yet, it seemed to be having an unfortunate effect on his concentration, which was a Very Bad Thing. There were skittering sounds farther down the tunnel, he could swear there were.

Harper made another sound in his throat. It alarmed him. "Harper?"

"Can’t you get it?" Tightly. "What’s the matter?"

"Harper, are you all right?"

"I’m fine." Not quite a snarl and it made him jerk his fingers back. "Just get the damn thing!"

Deep breath, he told himself and closed his eyes. Imagined the shape that kept slipping away and reached again. Found something rather thicker and longer and definitely not in Harper’s pocket.

Shock held him still for a moment. Harper made another pained sound. "What do you expect, you’re practically groping me!"

It was hard to say who was more mortified by this development. Two more deep breaths and Dylan pushed the fact of Harper’s erection out of his mind, got his fingers in and the spot welder out and thanked whatever deities might exist that he’d done so. He wasn’t even going to address the question of groping or arousal or-- "Got it."

Harper’s sigh was patently relieved. "Okay. Hang on."

"I’m not going anywhere." Drily. Just pretend it hadn’t happened, he told himself, he’d already embarrassed Harper badly enough for one day. Hell, for the next 365 days, using Standard Terran reckoning. Maybe even longer.

More sliding. Much more sliding, and Harper’s breath was shockingly warm on his fingers. Quick flick of a tongue, and he was alarmed to find his own body responding to that, but Harper was just taking the welder. An almost inaudible click, brief touch of heat that had nothing to do with Harper, and his hands were free.

That skittering sound was getting louder. He rolled, took the welder from Harper’s mouth and rolled Harper over by simple use of force. Snicked through what was apparently a poor quality of plasteel to free Harper’s hands and helped Harper sit up. "I told you, you’re fucking ingenious."

Harper gave him a sidelong look, not quite avoiding his gaze. "Let’s get out of here."

He looked up and down the tunnel. "Any bets as to which direction is better?"

Harper looked in the direction of the skittering. "Not that way."

Dylan nodded, got himself moving despite the throbbing of his hands. And head. And other parts he refused to acknowledge. 

  


* * *

Harper’s head hurt. His feelings hurt. His arms hurt. His hands hurt. And watching Dylan’s ass ahead of him wasn’t helping to distract him from that. Much. 

He was losing his mind, Harper told himself for perhaps the thirtieth time. It was just that he hadn’t gotten laid in a while. It was just that Dylan had watched him sleep. Or seen him naked. Or had groped him.

Well, not groped him. It was just that he hadn’t gotten laid in a while. Of course he was going to react, he wasn’t made of stone, and why the _hell_ was he thinking about this when a) they were in just a tad bit of trouble and b) he was still pissed off at Dylan anyway?

Dylan stopped suddenly, which nearly led to collision. "Access panel," Dylan muttered.

He slid forward. "Hey, let me see."

Dylan obligingly moved aside enough for him to take a look. "Aha!" First good thing that had happened since... well, since the kid had come into the bar. He popped the panel, looked happily at the circuits inside. "Gotcha, you bastards."

Dylan shifted back more, giving him the room to find the circuits he wanted. He could use a little more light, of course, but hey, he could manage. He checked his pockets again, found a slidepin. Not high tech, but hell, it would work. A little pressure here, a little break there and-- "Voila," he said, and the hatch opened. Underneath them.

Sickening roll of his belly as the surface beneath him fell away, sickening smell and squishing sound as he landed. In garbage. Somewhere unseen, Dylan was swearing. With a lot of imagination and what sounded like several languages.

Amazing. He didn’t know Dylan ever used those words. At least in public. Although the inside of a waste unit wasn’t exactly public, he supposed and while he was noticing that, he realized he had to get off his ass and get moving. 

"God!" Dylan finished up, and rose, still up to his hips in garbage. 

Harper looked up, saw the hatch above had closed. "Well, at least we’re out of the service tunnel." 

Dylan looked at him, dangerous expression. "Tell me, Harper, do you find danger arousing?"

His face went hot. Trust Dylan not to let him forget. "Get real."

"I only ask because now we’re trapped in a waste unit."

He managed to get to his feet, slogged toward the far wall. "I can get us out."

"I hope to hell you can." Dylan was definitely in a bad mood.

It made him long to punch Dylan again. "This isn’t my fault," he snarled. "Give me a hand with this."

Dylan stomped over-or tried, which wasn’t easy in a garbage up to your hips-and took hold of one edge of the indicated panel. Obviously, nobody had needed to use it for a while, they both had to strain, and his hands, already throbbing, throbbed worse before they got it off.

Something over in the corner slithered. He _knew_ what it was, but it was obvious from Dylan’s expression that he didn’t. Just as well. "Ooooh-kay," Harper said and peered at the internal circuits. A little different than he expected, but he was one of the best engineers-- ah, there, that should do it.

The hatch was overhead this time. 

Slithering sound again, this time closer, and the hair on the back of his neck was making a very serious attempt to stand up. 

Dylan frowned in the direction of the sound. "What _is_ that?"

"Believe me, you don’t want to know." He pocketed the pin, laced his fingers together to form a stirrup. "Up you go."

"You’re lighter," Dylan objected, still frowning.

More slithering. He would _not_ panic, he told himself. "I can’t lift you, Dylan--just go, dammit!"

His tone must have given Dylan the clue, Dylan actually listened to him, heaved himself up and caught the hatchway, hauled ass and turned around to reach for him.

Being short really sucked sometimes, he thought, vainly reaching up. 

More slithering, and it was heading his way. Panic did the impossible, he used the inside edge of the panel like a step and hurled himself upward, hoping like hell Dylan could catch him. Strong fingers closed around his wrists, and he clutched, swung in midair as something really big and ugly with a wicked set of teeth reared up after him.

He yelped as one of his feet was caught, yanked his leg up as Dylan hauled and rolled and then he was clear and the hatch was sliding shut. Well, not exactly clear, he was lying on top of Dylan again. He managed to avoid kneeing Dylan in the groin and got off, got up and held out a hand to Dylan, who accepted it. 

"Did it get you?" Dylan demanded, practically shaking at him. "What the hell _was_ that?"

He looked down. "It got my boot." Dammit. "And this was my best pair!" 

"I’ll get you a new pair myself," Dylan growled. "Did it get you?"

"No, just my boot." He stared mournfully down at his sock. "It’s the garbage disposal."

"It’s what?"

"It eats everything. It’s fond of the fresher stuff, or at least those kind usually are, which is why we looked interesting." Harper sighed. He really had loved those boots.

Rapid footsteps from beyond the curve of the corridor and he and Dylan exchanged a quick look before--

"What in the _hell_ have you two been doing!" Beka stood there, heavily armed, expression grim.

Dylan looked at him sidelong. "Oh. Ah. Well."

He waited for the blame, waited for it, but the only thing that happened is that Dylan began to laugh. 

Dylan, to put it bluntly, freaking cracked up. 

He stared, felt something bubble up inside, felt his mouth twitch. 

"Nothing much," Dylan told Beka, between riffs. "Harper’s just been showing me around the station."

He lost it himself then, slid down the corridor wall and just howled.

Beka was very definitely not pleased.

  


* * *

Naturally, Beka and Trance did double duty on the med-deck. 

"Ouch," Dylan jerked his head out of Beka’s reach. "Do you mind, that hurts?"

She gave him a long look. "Of course it hurts, you’ve got a cut there. I’m disinfecting it."

Harper snickered at Dylan’s expression, little riffs left over from their laughing jag on the station.

Dylan’s mouth twitched and he batted at the hand that held the disinfecting pad. "Hey, I’m fine, I’ll take a shower."

"You were in a waste unit, Dylan." Beka rolled her eyes at Harper, which had the unfortunate effect of triggering another snicker. As if just waiting for him to laugh again, Trance snuck up on him and applied the same damn thing to the back of his head. 

He tried to fend her off. "Hey! _I’m_ not bleeding."

"Not now," Trance said sweetly. 

He grimaced, looked at Dylan and couldn’t help himself, he started laughing again. Dylan was trying hard not to, but not having a lot of luck. 

"Harper!"

He put his hands over his mouth, laughed into them.

"Eeew!" Trance grabbed his wrists, began swabbing at his hands frantically. "Harper, you were just inside a _waste_ unit!"

Gross, he thought, but it just made him laugh harder. Dylan was laughing through his nose and trying to look serious. "Harper, what the hell happened out there?"

He squeezed his eyes shut, yelped when Trance returned to swabbing his head again. "The bracelet’s gone. I think the girl set us up, Dylan. Probably for whoever’s running her. Took a look at that fancy uniform and figured you had more on you than we gave her, I bet." He opened his eyes again to see Dylan giving him a peculiar look. "Hey, she’s only trying to survive. I don’t have to like it, but at least she’s not lying down to die."

Dylan’s laughter seemed to have died. "It makes sense. I’m going to file a report with the stationmaster anyway."

He took in a breath, calmer now. "Yeah, I guess you better. Her manager got a little rough, people are going to end up dead." He knew that world a lot better than he wanted to, a lot better than he’d ever admit.

His agreement got a long look from Dylan, then a smile. "You’re a resourceful genius, Harper."

Beka shot him a meaningful look, which he ignored. "I am a god," he agreed cheerfully, then, "Ow, Trance, do you _have_ to do that?" He looked accusingly at her and rubbed his neck, where she’d injected him. 

"Yes, I do. You were in a _waste_ unit." She patted him, moved purposefully toward Dylan.

Dylan slid off the med-table. "I just had all my shots, uh, less than a year ago, Trance."

"You were in a _waste_ unit," Harper told him. "Take it like the brave High Guard officer you are."

Dylan’s eyes narrowed, but he stood still, obliging Trance’s height by leaning down. Nary a wince, damn him.

Harper made a rude gesture, and then out of the blue, they were both laughing again.

"A tour of the station!" Harper gasped. "All the best places."

"The hot nightspots," Dylan agreed, and helped him down.

Beka and Trance looked at each other. "Head injury," Beka asked drily.

"Or something," Trance said, and giggled.

It didn’t help.

  


* * *

They were a few days out of T’kri before Dylan and Harper could look at each other without grinning like idiots. Dylan reflected that it was just as well, he had no idea of how to approach the apology he was fairly certain he owed Harper. If Harper was generous enough to let it go....

But on the fourth day, he decided that was the coward’s way out, waited until Harper was off-shift to go in search of him.

Bizarrely, Harper was working on one of his projects and singing loudly off key. Ah, the earpieces gave it away, Harper was, as Harper put it, jamming. He had no way of knowing what the hell Harper was building now, but Harper’s little inventions were generally pretty useful, so unless it started looking dangerous, he wasn’t going to comment. 

Still singing, Harper raised his hands and did a sort of shuffling dance step, gaze still inward. Dylan stood patiently, trying not to laugh--Harper’s voice wasn’t bad, but he couldn’t carry a tune. Not that anyone ever did while singing along to music, of course, but there was something deceptively youthful and harmless about Harper at these moments. 

Very harmless. He wondered if that was protective coloration, wondered if others had seen the feral side of Harper. Wondered if Beka had.

Harper did a half turn, a sort of jump and shuffle and then caught sight of him. Backward leap, stumble and Harper sat down on the floor hard, his eyes briefly wide with startlement before bad temper took over. "What the _hell_!" The earpieces went flying.

That had to hurt. Dylan sighed inwardly, held out a bottle of Ollarian ale as a peace offering. "I didn’t mean to startle you."

The anger ebbed visibly. "For me?"

He coughed. "Unless you’ve started feeding it to the engines."

For an instant, he got a brief, charming smile. A genuine smile. And then wariness clouded it. "What for?"

He wanted that smile back. Badly. "Call it an apology of sorts. I was out of line the other day, and I apologize." Bluntly.

Long look, and then the usual, every day Harper smile. Bright, almost insolent. "No biggie."

"Yeah, it was." He held Harper’s gaze for a moment. "If you choose to tell me, fine. If not, it’s none of my business."

Harper looked away, he saw that odd vulnerability there again, and he had a feeling that was going to be his undoing. 

Finally, Harper grinned again, rolled back up to his feet. "Where did you get this?" Marveling a little.

He chuckled. "I, ah, laid some in before we left T’kri. Figured it could be a memento of our tour through the, ah, messier parts of the T’kri station."

That startled another genuine grin out of Harper. And a snicker. "Showing you around the station," he said and began to laugh. "Did you _see_ the look on Beka’s face when you said that?"

He couldn’t help it, it was infectious. "Don’t, please, don’t make me start again," he begged. "I’ve just gotten to the point where I can resist when I look at you."

Harper looked away, shoulders shaking. "That was so great," he choked out and then looked back. "You bring another one? I have a couple of clean glasses around here somewhere."

Dylan held his up. "Definitely. Forget the glasses, I’m not so prissy I can’t drink it straight from the bottle."

Harper snickered again, twisted the bottle top off. "I did have doubts."

He could have let that sting. Chose not to. Instead, he made a rude gesture, got another snicker, and walked over to study Harper’s project. "What are you up to now?"

"Just a little household gadget to keep Rommie happy." Harper gestured vaguely. "Nothing dangerous."

He took a swallow of ale, savoring it. "You’re dangerous," he told Harper lightly. "I can predict my long term addiction to this stuff."

Another brief flare of delight. "Yeah? Worse ways to go."

He found himself wishing to see more of that delight. "Hell, yes," he said and raised his bottle. Harper blinked, grinned and clinked his own against it. "Slainte."

Harper paused, bottle halfway to his mouth. "Slancha?"

"Health," he told Harper, amused.

Interested look. "What is that?"

"Gaelic."

Harper’s eyes lit up from within, that was three times now in one conversation; luck was with him today. "I was trying to learn Gaelic. Do you know it?"

"Just a few words," he admitted regretfully. "But we’ve got a language program on board."

Harper grimaced. "Sleep learning? Can’t do that with this, or so they tell me." He turned his head, gestured toward his neck. 

Dylan nodded, looked around the work area, not wanting to know precisely how and why Harper had ended up with a neural net. "You sleeping okay these days?"

Harper flushed, looked down at the worktable. "Yeah, thanks." Muttered it.

"I can’t teach you Gaelic," Dylan said, driven by some impulse he didn’t understand. "But I can teach you basketball."

Narrow look. "Thought you said only tall guys could play."

"I lied." Dylan smiled, felt it broaden at the sight of mischief and glee in Harper’s expression. "The way you jump? Christ, I’m starting to think you’re wearing anti-grav in your boots."

"No such thing." But Harper’s eyes were alight again. "Okay, I’m game. Let’s do it."

Dylan grinned, feeling happier than he had in days. "Gotta change. And so should you. Shorts. Short-sleeved shirt. You’re going to be working hard."

"Meet ya there?"

He laughed outright. "Give me ten and I’ll be there."

  


* * *

Harper was a dogged player, and damned if Dylan hadn’t been right, he flung himself into the air in a way that should not have been possible. He absorbed the rules easily, caught on quickly, and Dylan finally called a halt after being beaten badly.

"You bastard," he said laughing, "You’re a ringer, aren’t you?"

"A what?" Harper wasn’t sure whether or not to laugh.

"A ringer. You’ve played before, haven’t you?" Pulling his shirt over his head, Dylan used it to mop his face and neck. Grinned at Harper, who grinned back, more certain now. "If you haven’t, you’re a goddamn natural. I’d put you up against any of the seven footers from my day."

Harper snickered, turned his head to wipe his face on his sleeve. "Never done it before. Heard of it, but never played." 

"Well, you’re good." Dylan sighed, sank down on the floor, the wall at his back. "Damn, that feels good. We need to do this more often."

Quizzical look. "Play basketball?"

"Yeah. Great workout." He tilted his head back, felt a curious sensation in the pit of his stomach. Harper looked very young when relaxed, too young. "How old are you, anyway?"

Narrow look, but Harper sank down beside him. "Twenty-eight. Maybe. Give or take a year. Or two." Sidelong look. "I’m not exactly sure."

God. Harper wasn’t sure. He tried to imagine, as he had done before, the circumstances of Harper’s early life. Failed utterly. 

"You’re doing it again." Harper pulled off his own shirt, mopped his face and chest. Pale, pale skin, marked in places by scars that Dylan was damned well certain were old.

"Doing what again?" He remembered, Harper had been suffering a variety of measles when they first collided during the Maru’s salvage operation.

"Getting that look." Harper avoided his gaze, but there was something unhappy, something uncomfortable.

He frowned. "What look?"

"I dunno. It’s sort of... grim and brooding." Brief glance sidelong. 

He sighed. "I can’t help it. I look at you and think of all the children who died, all the people who died. Who were murdered or who starved or who died from any one of a hundred of the plagues still roaming around the goddamn galaxy. The Commonwealth was supposed to prevent that."

"Commonwealth fell." Harper sounded matter of fact. "Things don’t last forever, Dylan."

Mordant humor rose up in him. "Except for me."

Brief grin, more relaxed again. "300 years does not eternity make, pal."

He let himself laugh. "Who are you calling pal, pal?"

That delight and surprise again, and it shook him. This was dangerous, the feeling in the pit of his stomach was dangerous, caring about Harper was dangerous. Harper was changeable, mercurial, capable of childlike delight and feral viciousness, and God, he hadn’t felt this way in, well, three hundred years. He smiled. "Shower. If you’re fast, before I crash, I think I can scrounge up another cold bottle of ale in my quarters." Dangerous, dangerous, and the hell with it, he didn’t care.

"Fast?" Harper laughed. "You won’t even _see_ me moving, old man."

Just for that, he snapped Harper on the ass with his shirt as they got up. A yelp, maniac laughter, and Harper was gone.

Harper was right. He hadn’t even seen him moving. But he heard Harper’s laughter in his head all the way back to his quarters.

  


* * *

Beka was waiting for Harper when he got to his quarters. His quarters had been rearranged, which meant she’d been waiting for quite some time. "I wish you wouldn’t do this," he complained. "I can never find anything when you do this."

"I got tired of waiting." Beka rose from the chair, advanced on him. "What have you been doing?" 

She was frowning. It made him nervous. "Playing basketball." He tried to think if he’d done anything that might piss Beka off, failed. "With Dylan."

"With Dylan." She folded her arms and scowled at him. "What are you doing, Harper? Or what is it that you _think_ you’re doing?"

He stared at her. "Huh?"

"With Dylan," she said patiently. "What are you doing with Dylan, Harper?"

She’d lost him totally. "I _was_ playing basketball," he said cautiously.

Beka rolled her eyes, sighed "You know, Dylan likes you, Harper."

Harper rolled his shoulders, uncomfortable suddenly. "Yeah, well, I like him, too." Beka was good, and she knew him well, but she wasn’t a freaking telepath.

She shook her head. "No, I mean, I think he really, really likes you." Meaningfully.

He blinked at her, relieved. "I think you’re nuts."

"I don’t." She was scowling again. "Look, Dylan’s a friend. You’re a friend. You get first dibs on my loyalty, you know that, but Harper, don’t screw him up."

Screw _Dylan_ up? What about him? "You’re pissing me off," he told her flatly. "I’m not _doing_ anything. He came down to see me. Told me he’d teach me basketball. That’s it. He hasn’t grabbed my ass, hasn’t given me longing looks, you’re out of your skull." His heart had begun to thump hard.

"I don’t think so." She eyed him. "What if I’m not?"

His stomach rolled over, a combination of dread and hope. "If you’re not crazy and Dylan’s warm for my form? I dunno, I guess I deal with it however."

Along with the scowl, he could see worry. She knew him too well, she knew too much about him, and what he’d never told her, she’d guessed. "Harper, be careful. I don’t want to see you get panicked, and if Dylan’s getting signals--"

"I’m not listening," he said, and fought the rise of panic. He wasn’t fourteen now, he was twice that, he could take care of himself, and even if Dylan was bigger and broader, Dylan wasn’t... wasn’t Bannon. He just didn’t want to think about it. If Dylan wanted him, it meant he had to think about his own reactions to Dylan, and he wasn’t ready yet, dammit, he wasn’t even close to ready.

Beka’s mouth thinned. "Just be careful," she said and suddenly moved forward, grabbed him in a hug. "I don’t want you hurt. I don’t want you--I don’t want you to hurt anyone else."

He hadn’t wanted Bannon, he never had, he’d never felt anything for Bannon but revulsion and terror. He wasn’t going to think about the pleasure Bannon had managed to tease from his unwilling body, he’d spent too much time loathing himself for it in the past. But now he was shaking, cast back half a lifetime. "I won’t." Faintly. "I’m not going to."

She hugged him hard. "On the other hand, if it’s what you want, go for it." Drawing back, she tried a smile on. It didn’t fit very well. "I’ll even give you advice."

"Sure." He tried on one of his own. Wondered if it fit better. He managed to wait until she had gone before he began to really shake.

  


* * *

Harper was... weird suddenly. Remote one second, almost manic the next. Nervous. 

Puzzled, Dylan gave him the ale, stuck in a vid that was, by this time, truly ancient, as it had been nearly three hundred years old three hundred years earlier. Basketball game, championship game, and only then did Harper start to unwind and behave normally again.

Or what was normal for Harper. 

He couldn’t help laughing at Harper’s remarks, at Harper’s enthusiasm for a game that had taken place before either of them were born, but it was pure pleasure. He was the slippery slope to hell, and the worst part was, he was enjoying it.

Harper’s apparent normalcy only lasted until the vid was done, and then Harper went diffident abruptly, which was so alien to Dylan’s experience of Harper it worried him. Maybe Harper was just tired, he told himself "Get out of here," he told Harper, when Harper risked looking at him. Smiled to make sure Harper understood it was a friendly jibe. "Get some sleep." He grinned when Harper rolled his eyes, then sobered. "You okay?"

Harper twitched once, offered him a patently false smile. "Yeah, just tired."

Ah, he hoped that was it. Wondered if the nightmares were still plaguing Harper. "You should sleep well." He arched an eyebrow. "You going to tell any of us if you don’t?" If not him, he thought, at least Beka....

Harper flushed. "Well, yeah, if it gets bad again, I’ll let you know." Looked him in the eye. "Honest."

He believed him, felt warmed by that small evidence of trust. "That’s progress." He walked Harper to the door. "Same time tomorrow?"

This time, Harper’s smile was genuine, pleased. "I’ll beat your three hundred year old ass."

Oh, yes, he was sliding down faster and faster every time Harper smiled. "You can try. I’m wise to you now." He winked, resisted the urge to pat Harper. "And I still want to know about that housekeeping thing."

Harper snickered. "You’ll know when I do."

He narrowed his eyes, got another snicker, and let the door close, feeling oddly wistful. 

Things had been comfortable before they’d separated to shower. Maybe Harper had rethought his comfort level during the shower. Maybe _he_ was pushing things and behaving like an idiot. 

He was a stranger to Harper’s time, he’d insulted all of his new crew a half a hundred times without meaning to, perhaps he’d said something that had stung without realizing it. Maybe he’d stepped wrong again.

The memory of Harper sitting beside him, pale skin marked by scars, made him gloomy. Old scars, too, scars that probably dated back to Harper’s childhood. Harper had spent most of his early life in a refugee center, one of the reasons Harper’s immune system was more fragile than his, than almost anyone’s. 

He couldn’t imagine what Harper’s life had been like. What Beka’s life had been like. Maybe that was a good thing.

But thinking that didn’t stop him from brooding when he finally went to bed.

  


* * *

"Look, Dylan, I need to talk with you privately," Beka said in the morning. "Your quarters."

He glanced around the bridge. Everything was quiet, so far as he could tell. Trance was with her plants, down in science, Rev was at his station, a careful distance away from Harper, who still tended to twitch when the Magog approached. Harper was simultaneously monitoring systems, playing some sort of vid game, and reading a technical manual, and Tyr was, evidently, perusing an online weapons catalog. 

"All right," he said, a little baffled. "Let’s walk."

Beka nodded tightly and walked out with him.

He glanced at her as they walked, frowned at the tension he saw. "Is something wrong?"

Quick look at him and she shook her head. "I hope not." 

"That’s obscure," he said, probing delicately. "Everything’s all right with you?"

"Your quarters," she said stubbornly, then glanced at him again. "I wouldn’t put it past him to be able to monitor all conversations. But Rommie wouldn’t let him bug your quarters."

Jarred, he studied her profile. "Tyr?"

That got him an exasperated look. "Not Tyr."

Not Tyr. That left Rev, unlikely to do anything of the sort, and Harper. He couldn’t think of a reason for Harper to even want to monitor all conversations, but if anyone could do it, it would be Harper. 

Fine, he’d wait. 

He didn’t have to wait long. The moment the door closed behind them, Beka turned to face him, hands on her hips. "Dylan, what’s going on with you and Harper?" 

His jaw dropped.

"Look," she said, and began to pace. "I wouldn’t pry, really I wouldn’t, I know it’s personal, if I wasn’t worried about him. I mean, you’re both adults, it’s your decision, but...." Her voice trailed off and her expression was exasperated. "I just don’t know if I’m going over the line, or if I’m being smart. I mean, there are things--things I can’t tell you about, they aren’t mine to tell, okay? But things. And I’m worried about him, he hasn’t been quite himself since the whole Jeger thing and the data dump, what with the nightmares and all that, and there’s things--"

"Beka," he said loudly, cutting into the flood of words. "What _are_ you talking about?"

Worried look and more pacing, which kept his temper in line. Obviously, she was genuinely concerned about Harper.

He tried not to feel anger that she thought he’d ever deliberately cause harm to Harper. 

She sighed, shook her head. "I’m over the line, I am. He’d be so pissed if he knew I was doing this, God, what _am_ I doing?"

He wished he knew for sure. "Beka, I am not, er, doing anything with Harper. Except basketball, a couple of beers, that’s it." His stomach felt funny again, and he was conscious of disappointment that he wasn’t, which triggered shock. "What are you telling me, Beka? Is Harper, ah, does Harper have a problem of some kind?" No one had bothered to warn him about Harper’s immune system until it was nearly too late.

Beka looked at him worriedly again. Continued to pace. "See, that’s what I was afraid of, that you’d jump to conclusions. No, Harper doesn’t have a problem. Exactly." Another turn around the room.

Exactly. Well, then, what the hell was the issue? He was starting to feel like Alice, like he’d fallen down the rabbit hole. "Beka, if I go out and come back in again, will this make sense?"

She stopped dead in front of him, her hands on her hips on her hips again, her expression decisive. "Probably not. Okay, look, Dylan, let me just say this. If you do anything, and I mean anything personal at all, to hurt Harper, I’ll have to...." She bit her lip. "Maybe not kill you, but certainly maim you."

Somehow, he wasn’t at all certain she was kidding. No, she wasn’t, of course she wasn’t. "If," he said delicately, "I did anything personal to hurt Harper, I’d certainly regret it even if you didn’t maim me. Beka, it might help if I had a clue what we were discussing."

That got him a long assessing look. "You like him."

He fought the brief insane urge to bang his head on the wall. "Yes, Beka, I like Harper. I like you. I like Trance and I like Rev and Tyr." Okay, he was evading, it was hard enough experiencing his attraction to Harper without discussing it with anyone. Evasion was a Very Good Thing in this case.

Beka bit her lip again. "Oh."

His stomach did that funny thing, in reference to Harper. He refused to notice it. He could notice it later. When he was alone. 

Beka studied him intently. "You wouldn’t ever make him feel like he had to do something, you know, in the personal sense, would you?" She shook her head abruptly, rolled her eyes. "No, of course you wouldn’t. I’m losing my mind, that’s all."

That upset him. Was Harper feeling pressured in some arcane way? "Wait a minute," he said sharply, "what is it that Harper feels like he has to do?"

"Nothing, nothing, nothing." Beka waved dismissively. "I meant in the future, it doesn’t matter, I’m just losing my mind. Sorry to bother you with it."

His head really had begun to ache. "Beka!" Plaintively. "What are we talking about?"

Another long assessing look. Deep breath. Rueful grin. "Never mind. I’m an idiot. Harper would strangle me."

Right now, he’d help Harper. "You’re giving me a headache," he warned.

Another dismissive wave and Beka smiled sunnily. "Forget we ever had this conversation."

"That’s not going to be easy," he growled.

She moved forward, patted his shoulder. "Sure it will. Just tell yourself I was having a moment. An irrational moment."

That wouldn’t be hard to do, at least. 

This was about Harper. It worried him. Did he like Harper? Of course he liked Harper, he was afraid he more than liked Harper. But what did _Harper_ think? He narrowed his eyes. "Beka, what did Harper _say_ we were doing?"

Limpid innocent gaze. "Playing basketball."

He considered that, now totally baffled. "Beka, does Harper think I dislike him?"

She stared, put her hand to her mouth and began to giggle. There was something way too unnerving about Beka giggling. He pointed to the door.

She went.

He really did have a headache now. And he was _not_ going to think about that funny thing his stomach kept doing. At all.

Especially after that.

Maim him. Indeed.

  


* * *

Dylan had pulled back. Harper couldn’t decide if he was relieved or disappointed. They were still playing basketball, not every day, but pretty frequently, and he liked that, liked it a lot. Felt comfortable with it, even if Beka’s cautions had temporarily freaked him out. He was starting to think that they were really getting to be friends and he hadn’t had many friends in his life. Beka. Trance. And now Dylan. 

Harper valued that. But lately, Dylan had been preoccupied, which could be nothing more than another anniversary three hundred years in the past that triggered Dylan’s occasional bouts of brooding. He was pretty sure he hadn’t done anything Dylan couldn’t tolerate. Dylan didn’t tend to mince words, so yeah, it probably went back to brooding. 

Which was okay with Harper, who had his own bouts, even if he’d rather be blown out an airlock then let anyone see it.

So, the days passed, and they played basketball, joked once in a while--okay, joked a lot, at least away from the bridge--and even if he wanted to tell himself he’d been right at first, that Dylan was too conscious of rank to just let down his hair, he knew it wasn’t entirely true.

And then they hit Plenaria outpost while it was being hit by a Magog raid.

The Magog retreated when Andromeda reached the system, vanishing into the slipstream as they approached the outpost. Rev was silent and Harper found he was uneasy with his back to the Magog, but that wasn’t the worst of it. 

No, the worst of it was the outpost. He _knew_ what they’d find there.

"Rev, Harper and Trance, you stay here," Dylan ordered. "Tyr, Beka, you’re with me."

Harper looked at Dylan, twitched. "I’m going."

"The hell." Dylan stopped in front of him, intense look. "You’ll follow orders, Harper."

He opened his mouth, closed it again. Beka looked at him worriedly, shook her head fractionally.

It didn’t stop him from leaving the bridge the moment they were gone. 

The outpost had once been alive, full of people. Good people, bad people, people working the wrong side of the law for all they were worth, people trying to raise their children and feed them and clothe them. Now there was nothing but blood and death and the echo of his bootheels in corridors that would always be haunted.

Time wavered in and out and he was on Brandenburg among the dead, walking ankle deep in blood, he couldn’t tell when and where he was, and it became important to give the dead some dignity, as if that mattered now.

Beka found him finally, his clothes soaked in gore, trying vainly to put a child back together. "Harper," she said, and her voice shook. "Harper!"

He looked up at her, saw only the dead of Brandenburg, of Plenaria. "You’re dead," he told her hollowly, "You can’t talk to me." 

"What the--" Something hit his face sharply. "Harper!" Dylan.

Dylan. Dylan hit him again. Time snapped back into focus. His hand came up, stopped the second blow. "Don’t. Hit. Me. Again." He hissed it.

Instead of looking alarmed or regretful, Dylan looked relieved. "I won’t. Come on, Harper." Gently. "Come with me, all right?"

"But I’m not done." He looked down at his hands, at the child’s torn body. "I’m not finished."

Dylan put a hand on his shoulder, and Beka crouched in front of him. "I’ll finish," she told him softly. "Go with Dylan, okay?"

He was abruptly tired. But... he frowned at Beka. "Make sure you get everything." Trying to make her understand.

Beka swallowed hard and touched his face lightly. "I will, I promise."

He surrendered then. Let Dylan help him to his feet and guide him.

Tyr was standing there, expressionless. Watching him. He held that gaze truculently as Dylan guided him past, but that was all the energy he had left for defiance. 

Trance met them on the med-deck, gasped when she saw him and picked up an injector. 

"No sedative," Dylan barked. "Not yet. Let me try."

He looked at Dylan, frowned again. "I don’t need a sedative."

Dylan looked at him. "Exactly."

He closed his eyes briefly, felt Dylan guiding him again. 

When he surfaced again, somehow they were in Dylan’s quarters. He wasn’t sure about that, balked as Dylan nudged him toward the shower. "I can do it."

Dylan frowned at him, but he thought it was worry, not temper. "All right. Let me give you a hand with your boots."

He broke free of Dylan’s hold. "I can do it!" Voice rising. He wasn’t helpless, he wasn’t the kid he’d once been.

Dylan raised his hands harmlessly. "All right. All right. I’ll get you some clean clothes." Soft voice, careful voice, and he felt badly for that.

Time wavered again, he made a sound in his throat and suddenly, Dylan was hugging him. "Come on, Harper. Come back." Hugging him. Dylan was hugging him and he held on in return for a minute.

Just for a minute. Dylan’s voice was low, steady. And he could think again. "I’m okay." Hoarsely.

Dylan let go of him slowly. "Okay." Cautiously. 

They stared at each other for a moment. "I’m not crazy," he whispered.

"No, you aren’t." Something shifted in Dylan’s face. "The rest of the universe maybe, but I don’t think you are."

Relief made his knees wobble, but weirdly seemed to keep time anchored. "Okay. I’m going to take a shower."

"Good." Dylan’s voice was cautious.

He sat down on the floor and managed to get his boots off. Dylan backed out of the bathroom slowly, watching him, but that was okay. He supposed weirding out was a good enough reason to get that look.

The water was hot, but not hot enough. He scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed until Dylan opened the shower door and hauled him out by force. "Leave some skin," Dylan barked and wrapped him up in a blanket. 

He stood, staring stupidly, until Dylan took hold of him again and walked him back into the next room. Beka was there, pale and unhappy, arms folded.

She came toward him and he flinched. Tried to catch it. "Did you get her fixed up?"

Steady look. "Yes, Harper."

"I know, I know." He felt exhausted suddenly. "I’m wigged out."

"We’re _all_ wigged out," Dylan muttered. "Bed."

He _was_ tired. "But it’s your bed."

Dylan looked irritated. "Harper, unless you want me to throw you over my shoulder and carry you down the hall, get in bed here."

He eyed Dylan, decided Dylan meant it and meekly got into bed, damp blanket and all. Beka pulled the covers over him, touched his face. "It’s okay, Harper."

That was one of the stupidest things he’d ever heard Beka say. "How can it be okay, Beka, everybody is _dead_?" 

"She meant you’ll be okay," Dylan told him. "Are you warm enough?"

He supposed he was. Nodded vaguely. 

Dylan crouched next to the bed. "Harper, you’re in shock. Are you warm enough?" Exasperated again.

"I dunno." It was embarrassing to admit that.

Dylan sighed, rested his forehead on the mattress. "Beka? There are more blankets in the empty cabin two doors down. Would you mind?"

Beka nodded and vanished. Dylan flipped back the blankets and wrestled the damp one off him even as he tried to cling to it. 

"I’ve got some clothes for you," Dylan growled, and he let go. Shirt and sleep pants, and the fabric was finer than most of the clothes he owned. Of course, they were a little large for him, but hell if he cared. Blankets again, and then Beka came back with another stack and by the third one, he felt warm.

"That’s good," he said muzzily.

A hand brushed his hair. He blinked in surprise. Not Beka’s, Dylan’s. He let the comfort of that sink in, and Dylan, as if knowing that, did it again. "Go to sleep, Harper," Dylan told him gruffly. "We’ll be here."

He supposed it was lame of him to like that idea. But his eyelids fell anyway, and even if he didn’t sleep, he dozed, let himself drift, half-listening.

"You’re right," he heard Dylan say. "This is going to set him back, but he’s not made out of glass, God! Beka, you should know that better than I do."

He didn’t hear Beka’s answer. 

"I know." Sweet tone of reason. Dylan’s It Makes More Sense This Way tone of voice. "He’ll be fine."

That time, Beka didn’t answer. The door slid open and closed again.

He opened his eyes. "She’s mad at me."

"She’s worried, that’s all." Dylan looked at him. " _I’m_ worried about you."

He wasn’t worried. "It’s just your ordinary garden variety nervous breakdown."

"Were you due?" Dylan gave him a narrow look. 

He considered that. "My cousins died from Magog. I mean, the Magog didn’t kill them, but they had to be killed unless we wanted to watch the hatchlings rip them apart."

Dylan’s face went still. "Ah." 

He felt scared suddenly. One of them had to stay grounded, and he wasn’t up to it at the moment. "Don’t freak out." 

"I’ll try not to." Dylan sighed, turned toward him. "You’re supposed to be sleeping."

"Can’t." He blinked. "Not yet."

Dylan nodded as if that made sense. Grabbed the chair and dragged it toward the bed, sat down and looked at him. "Don’t _ever_ do that again, Harper. I gave you a direct order, and I did it to prevent this from happening." Not quite harsh, but definitely pretty stern.

Dylan had foreseen this. That was even more embarrassing than freaking out "I’ve seen worse," he said, but he said it apologetically.

Dylan didn’t look away. "Where?"

"In my head."

Dylan winced and shook his head. "Never, Harper. I wouldn’t want to have to throw you in the brig every goddamn time."

"You and whose army?" He was both touched and amused. "‘Sides, you know I could get out."

Dylan’s eyes narrowed. "Not if I had you in shackles."

He snickered. "You’re not the type."

Groaning, Dylan put his face in his hands. "You’re not crazy, I am."

He wondered if Dylan was going to hug him again. Found himself wishing rather wistfully that Dylan would. "I’m okay," he said. "Really, I am."

Another groan. "Right."

And just like that, he could go to sleep, felt himself floating again and put out a hand to touch Dylan’s before he went under.

  


* * *

Dylan sighed. Here he was, watching Harper sleep again. With that funny feeling in the pit of his stomach again. Okay, time to face the music. Yes, he liked Harper. He more than liked Harper, which was a development fairly unexpected, at least to him. Beka had evidently seen it coming.

And yes, he wanted Harper, wanted to touch Harper, wanted to cup Harper’s face and kiss him and tell him it would be all right. The strength of that feeling was frightening, and he understood why. Harper was a member of his crew, he was the captain. Hierarchy aside, there was also the question of trust; he sincerely doubted that he’d gotten to the point of trust with Harper. There were times he wasn’t entirely sure Harper considered him a friend.

And Harper, at the moment, was a mess, never mind his fingers had curled over Dylan’s. What _that_ did to the pit of his stomach was both touching and dismaying. He rubbed his thumb over Harper’s forefinger, felt calluses, which made him feel both amusement and wary tenderness. Harper would likely be baffled by both, he suspected, and it was a measure of just how confused he was at the moment that he preferred that to comprehension.

Plenaria was a pale shadow of Brandenburg. With Plenaria on top of Brandenburg in his head, small wonder Harper was shocky. What he didn’t understand is the impulse that had driven Harper onto the outpost. Defiance of his order? He didn’t think so. Oh, Harper would argue to hell and back, and even ignore orders on occasion, but this hadn’t seemed like defiance. It seemed more like... like need. 

That frightened him. He put his cheek against their joined hands, sighed. It worried him a great deal, made him wonder how many memories had been left behind when the data had been purged. Wonder how hard it was for Harper to live with those. Harper was integrating, Trance had said, and while he was willing to accept Trance’s diagnosis, failing any serious indications to the contrary, he wasn’t sure that today wasn’t one of the serious indications he should be counting.

Beka thought Harper had gone seriously around the bend. He wasn’t ready to accept that.

Didn’t want to accept it. His feelings were getting deeper and more dangerous than he’d allowed himself to imagine.

But knowing that didn’t stop him from brushing Harper’s fingers with his mouth.

  


* * *

Harper woke because he was thirsty, found Dylan still sitting in the chair, his face on the bed. Asleep. 

It irritated him and made him feel guilty at the same time. He tugged at a strand of Dylan’s hair and Dylan sat up so fast he had to duck back or risk a broken nose. 

"What?" Dylan asked alertly, even though he had a blanket wrinkle on his cheek.

He wanted to smooth that away. "I’m thirsty. You got any Sparky cola?"

Dylan blinked at him glassily, then frowned. "You get water."

He sighed. He wanted caffeine to clear his head. "I’ll get it myself."

The glassiness disappeared. "You move from that bed, and I’ll strangle you myself."

They stared at each other for a moment. Harper surrendered first. "Okay." He put his head back on the pillow.

Dylan stood up, and went off, presumably, to get the water. Harper, burrowed into the pillow, inhaling. Smelled like Dylan, all right. He sniffed the sleeve of the shirt he was wearing, rubbed it against his cheek. Hmmm, too clean. No Dylan scent. He pushed the pillows aside to smell the sheet. Definite Dylan scent. Weird, weird, weird, he was smelling the captain’s sheets and feeling comforted.

"What are you doing?"

He lifted his head again, felt his face get hot; he pushed the pillows back, and took the glass of water. "Getting warm." 

Dylan looked at him dubiously. "Getting warm?"

"My nose was cold." Okay, it was lame, but he couldn’t very well explain what he’d been doing. 

"Your nose was cold." Dylan eyed him worriedly. 

He could have made something up. He opted to simply drink the water. Drained the glass and handed it back to Dylan, who looked at it and put it down on the floor, sat down again. 

"How do you feel?"

Harper considered that. Shrugged. "Stupid. Guilty."

Dylan closed his eyes briefly. "About?"

Harper blinked. "I’m sleeping in your bed and you’re sleeping in the chair." 

Long look. 

He cleared his throat. "I mean, I’m okay, Dylan. You don’t have to watch me sleep. I can go back to my quarters." The look didn’t ease up, at least not until Dylan bent down to start taking off his boots. Faintly, oh, very faintly, panic flared. Along with something else. "What are you--"

"Shut up, Harper." Gruffly.

He shut up, watched nervously. 

Boots off, Dylan stood up, twitched the covers down. "Move over."

He moved over, twitched a little as Dylan stretched out on his back and pulled the blankets up again. No way was he going to get to sleep, he told himself.

"Lights down, please, Rommie." Dylan sounded tired. Really tired.

Maybe he could. Besides, Dylan wasn’t Bannon. If Dylan wanted him, Dylan would approach it from the civilized angle. He knew that. Even if his gut didn’t completely believe him.

The lights went down. Not off. Which was good. At this point, he figured that might completely leave him gibbering. He lay stiffly for a while until Dylan patted him, which made him jump.

"Go to sleep, Harper."

Yeah, right. He rolled over to put his back to Dylan and Dylan’s hand settled harmlessly between his shoulder blades, rubbing small circles. In spite of everything, it was... soothing. Fingertips, warm through the shirt, small circles, and he focused on that. He really was nuts, freaking out over this, Dylan wasn’t Bannon, Dylan was Dylan, and tired and trying to be kind, and he wasn’t so stupid he didn’t know that even if his body’s flight or fight response wouldn’t catch a clue.

Except it was, finally. Slowly, slowly, his muscles loosened up again as he got used to the presence at his back. He just wasn’t used to sleeping with anyone, that was it, yeah, he wasn’t. He was beginning to think maybe he could get used to sleeping with Dylan. Treacherous thought.

"Sleep, Harper." Drowsy voice. Comfortable voice.

His eyes closed again. The circles were hypnotic. Comforting. Comfortable. He followed them down until he fell under again.

  


* * *

Dylan woke up, wondering why, found Beka standing over him with her fingers at her lips. He turned his head to one side, saw a tuft of blond hair and a huddled shape, which was a relief. He wouldn’t have put it past Harper to sneak out, but evidently exhaustion and shock had some benefit after all.

Beka shook her head at him when he started to rise, so he confined himself to leaning up on one elbow. "What?" Harsh whisper. She looked awful, worse than Harper.

Beka crouched near the bed. "We’ve got as much salvaged as we can from the outpost. And, ah..." Rubbed a hand over her eyes. "Dylan, there’s only one way to deal with...." Vague gesture.

He frowned, tried to focus. Suddenly understood. "Fire is cleansing." Grimly.

Beka nodded, expression relieved for a moment before her gaze flicked beyond him to the lump under the blankets. "Yeah. Good. Okay. How is he?"

"Lucid, last time he woke up." They were both whispering. "Not as stubborn as usual."

Wan smile and she rubbed her eyes. "Maybe you’re right. He’s down, but not out."

"I am." He hoped to God he was right. 

Beka’s gaze flicked beyond him. "I hope so." Muted. "Trance says she thinks so, too."

Well, Beka and Harper had been friends for--he wasn’t sure how long, but he suspected it was a long while. And Trance--if she was seeing something ahead, that would be comforting. "Get some sleep, Beka." Gently.

She sighed, and rose. Wobbly grin. "Yeah."

Harper stirred slightly, made a small sound; Dylan put a hand out on Harper’s back, or what felt like Harper’s back. Rubbed it a little. After a heartbeat, Harper subsided. When Dylan looked back at Beka, she was watching him, her expression thoughtful. "Everyone else handling it okay?" he asked.

Beka sighed rolled her eyes. "I guess so. Rev’s meditating. Tyr--well, who the hell knows with Tyr. Trance is pretty quiet."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "And you? "

Another wobbly smile. "Too soon to tell. It was pretty hideous, worst thing I’ve ever--" She stopped, bit her lip, her eyes too bright, even in the faint light.

"You did a helluva job," he told her softly.

She gave him a long, long look. "Dylan, why did the Commonwealth ever negotiate with the Magog?"

It was an old argument. He was a soldier, not a politician. "I don’t know, Beka." Wearily. "I look at Rev, and I can understand. I see things like this, and I can’t."

She patted his knee. "Okay, I’m going to crash. If I can."

He could appreciate that. His own dreams had been populated by the dead, by the dead and by Harper covered in blood. Sober nod at him, and Beka vanished in the dimness, he heard the door slide open and closed as she left.

Settling back again, he took his hand off Harper, only to have Harper twitch and moan. Feeling guilty over indulging himself, he rolled to one side, rubbed Harper’s back lightly until the moaning stopped, until the dream shifted again. Nightmares, he thought and closed his eyes. This universe was a nightmare, compared to what he’d once known. Scant wonder Harper was... Harper.

He wondered how many captives the Magog had taken from the outpost. Wondered if there was any point in trying to rescue or retrieve. Wondered what the hell he was doing, trying to rebuild something that had been built by humans and destroyed by humans. 

Harper rolled over suddenly, startling him, burrowed down into the blankets and into him, face pressed against his ribs. He looked down, peered at the top of Harper’s head, cupped his hand lightly on the back of it, shaped his fingers to the skull beneath. Silky short hair, slight dampness of sweat at the edge and Harper muttered into his shirt plaintively and unintelligibly. He stroked lightly, and Harper settled again, God knew how, pressed so close to Dylan it was a wonder he could breathe.

It _was_ trust, he realized, and that realization made his throat ache. Things just kept getting more and more complicated, he thought and sighed inwardly. Closed his eyes and let his hand still, fingertips just brushing the nape of Harper’s neck. 

Warm skin, human touch-maybe that was the cure for Harper. He wasn’t sure what _his_ cure was--he was 300 years out of date, and everything he knew was dead. Morbid thought, but the warmth next to him let him return to sleep anyway.

Maybe _that_ was the cure for him.

  


* * *

//...the corridor was dark and endless and oh, he was afraid, so afraid, knew what awaited him at the far end, knew what was behind him, and which was worse he couldn’t tell and when he turned around, there was Bannon, smiling at him.

Bannon. He’d been afraid for years that Bannon would catch up to him and god, it had happened after all, just when he’d gotten to the point he had stopped being afraid.

Warm hand on the back of his neck and he turned, terrified, but it wasn’t Bannon, no, it wasn’t any of Bannon’s people. He saw Dylan, not smiling, just there, looking at Bannon, the light of battle in his eye. Dylan’s fingers didn’t grip, didn’t hurt, Dylan’s touch comforted as much as his presence....//

Soft voice. "Easy." 

Harper twitched, lifted his head enough to breathe air that wasn’t dragged through Dylan’s shirt. He was up close and personal with Dylan, huddled up against him, and there really was a hand on the back of his neck, on the back of his head, soothing slip of fingers in his hair. "Easy." Drowsy voice above him. 

He shivered a little, put his head back in Dylan’s shirt. This was crazy. Totally nuts. He was wrapped around Mr. Idealism High Guard, and it felt safe, felt good. At least he thought it felt safe, safety wasn’t a concept he’d ever gotten real familiar with, and Dylan’s fingers kept moving even though he wasn’t sure Dylan was entirely awake. 

"Easy, Harper." Definitely drowsy, and slipping back under.

He let himself float for a while, trying not to see what was inside his own head. Blood and more blood and some of it was real and some of it was ancient and nothing he’d ever seen for himself. And then there was Bannon. He shuddered suddenly, cursing the weakness. He wasn’t a kid any more, he wasn’t fourteen, he wasn’t twenty, he wasn’t a victim and he sure as hell could take care of himself, so why did this shit want to come leaping out of the back of his mind and twist him around again?

Dylan, pointed out one part of his mind, was petting his hair. And he liked it, too. Which was pretty scary, overall, at least to the fourteen year old kid inside of him, even if the rest of him figured it was A-okay. At the moment, he was such a fucking mess that his body was liking it just fine, too, even though the rest of him was freaking.

Dylan shifted over to his back, drawing Harper along with him. "Just a dream," Dylan breathed above him, running on automatic. Automatic, and still remembering he was there and trying to bring him back down.

Now _that_ was scarier than the hair-petting. 

Dylan sighed, shifted, stretched a little. Said something Harper couldn’t quite make out and his fingers stilled, right there in Harper’s hair.

Scary, scary, scary. "I can’t do this." Plaintive voice.

Abruptly, Dylan woke up, Harper could feel it in the way muscles tensed under his cheek. "Can’t do what?" Muzzily.

He banged his forehead against Dylan’s ribs. "You know."

Dylan’s hand moved again in his hair. Another sigh. "Harper, I can’t even get you to follow orders, I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do. And wouldn’t want to, outside of that following orders thing."

He felt obscurely guilty about that. "You could shoot me out an airlock."

"Oh, yeah, I do that all the time to people uninterested in pursuing me." Remarkably dry tone for a man who had joined the conversation late. 

Harper put his face back into Dylan’s shirt, grinned in spite of himself. "Come on, you know you think about it. Shooting me out the airlock, I mean," he added nervously.

Dylan sighed. "Not you. Occasionally with regard to Tyr, yes. But I can’t be held guilty for my fantasies."

He laughed silently and his shoulders twitched.

"Harper?" Faintly alarmed. 

Shit, Dylan probably thought he was crying or something, which only made it harder not to laugh. "Good luck," he said. "Tyr could kick your ass."

"He could try." Relieved voice.

Harper raised his head to see Dylan peering at him.

What the hell. He wasn’t fourteen any more. He slid upward, Dylan’s arm went around him and he put his head on Dylan’s shoulder. Dylan smelled of sleep and himself and something he always associated with Dylan. Maybe the kind of soap he used or something. He even liked that. Liked the way Dylan’s arm rested on him. Weird. Very weird.

Dylan’s hand rubbed his shoulder. "If you keep waking me up, I’m going to have to kill you." Conversational tone. 

He breathed in, found he was rubbing his cheek against Dylan’s shirt. "Sorry." Unrepentantly.

Small sound, not quite laughter. "Yeah, I’m sure. Death threats do tend to induce repentance."

Harper snickered. "Beka would kill you."

"There is that." Dylan’s eyes closed again, his arm tightened just a bit, his fingers kept rubbing at Harper’s shoulder.

Tighter or not, Dylan’s arm felt more friendly than scary. Harper remembered too well what Bannon’s arm and hand were like. But he wasn’t going to think about that. He was going to think about the hug Dylan had given him in the bathroom. It was sort of a hug, he told himself and put his arm over Dylan’s chest, kind of reciprocal.

In return, Dylan rubbed his cheek over Harper’s hair, which felt weird, but okay. Harper let his own eyes close. He could deal, this was... this was pretty different. He wasn’t exactly used to being touched, outside of sex. Or touching, for that matter, at least not this way. He hadn’t slept with anyone in--well, in years, since he’d gotten free of Bannon.

Sleeping with Dylan was pretty much okay. He didn’t kick or grab and the hair thing felt silly, but nice, too. He supposed it was the spikiness that drew Dylan’s hand, but really, it didn’t matter.

What mattered was that even the corridor dream hadn’t been so bad because he hadn’t been alone. In the dreamworld or this one.

Dylan had been there, just as he was here now.

That thought let him drop back down into sleep.

  


* * *

Harper was subdued in the morning, but not, Dylan judged, morbidly so. More thoughtful than anything else, which was hardly surprising. Harper spent more time at his worktable than on the bridge for the next few days, by which Dylan presumed that Harper disliked the idea of having taken comfort in his presence.

He’d faced the facts, he could admit to himself that Harper’s reaction saddened him. But even that sadness didn’t keep him from going to Harper’s work area, three days after they’d left Plenaria, to once again lure Harper out to play.

"Basketball?" Harper squinted up at him from the floor, where the latest project had taken on more definition and size and apparently acquired the power of locomotion. "Oh. Yeah. Sure. So you’re not mad at me anymore?"

That jarred him. He considered the recent past, allowed his mouth to quirk upward. "About disobeying a direct order? Let me put it this way, I think the crime was its own worst punishment."

Harper blinked at him expressionlessly. "Good point." Muted voice, but then Harper carefully clipped what looked like the new spot welder to his belt and bounced up. "Ten minutes?"

"Five." Dylan grinned outright.

"I’ll beat you there." 

Harper, Dylan reflected later, played basketball the way he played life. Full of attitude and dogged determination not to lose, Harper threw himself full tilt at winning, refusing to quit when a saner man might have reckoned the odds and said no. The game was even this time, he didn’t cut Harper a bit of slack and drove himself harder than he had in, God, forever, and Harper got even more manic and delighted, hooting and jeering Dylan’s plays, and cheering his own.

Which made it hard not to simply break up laughing, so he had to do some attitude of his own, just to stay even.

"Who is winning?"

Tyr’s voice came out of the shadows near the door and Harper, in the act of aiming the ball, lost focus and missed. 

Dylan was pretty sure Tyr hadn’t heard the muttered expletive, just as he was sure that Tyr had probably timed his question deliberately. He threw Harper a warning look that would have had more strength if his mouth hadn’t been twitching when he did it. "So far? Harper."

Tyr looked disbelieving. "Harper?"

"Yeah, me," Harper growled. He bounced the ball and tilted a challenging look Tyr’s way. "Wanna take me on?"

Tyr’s expression was dubious. "You?"

Dylan grinned. "You get a lot of exercise, playing with Harper. Give it a try, Tyr." He shook his shoulders, stretched them out. "You might even like it."

Harper flicked him a grin. "I won’t beat you too bad, Tyr."

Withdrawing to the sidelines, Dylan wiped his face on the hem of his shirt, looked up to see Tyr listening gravely while Harper dribbled the ball around him. Misgivings struck him suddenly; he remembered too clearly his own experiences with Tyr and basketball. "Tyr," he said loudly, "No fouling." 

Tyr gave him a long look and Harper winked, which relieved him. Besides, Harper was used to Tyr, Harper could handle his own, he told himself, but only a few minutes into their play, it became apparent that, Harper’s ferocity not withstanding, Tyr was playing in deadly earnest. Which should be an oxymoron, Dylan told himself, but he was reluctant to interfere. The game played itself out, and he had to admit he was impressed by the fact that Harper nearly kept even until the end.

Tyr had barely broken a sweat. "Interesting," he told Dylan, looking away from a sodden, panting Harper. "I wouldn’t have thought he could manage as well as he did."

That annoyed him. "I don’t underestimate him." Rather sharply.

Tyr’s expression was offended. "Nor did I."

Harper rolled his eyes, sank to the floor and scrubbed his face with his shirt. "You have to admit, you didn’t think I could keep up."

Tyr gave Harper a long look down his nose. "I will admit you managed better than I would have anticipated."

Harper grinned cockily. "Thanks. I think."

"It’s an observation of fact, boy, not praise." Tyr looked down again.

"Ah, great, I needed that cleared up. Thanks for playing," Harper said sardonically.

Dylan had to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing. "This might be a good time for me to whip your ass," he told Harper.

Another grin, genuine delight. God, he loved that grin. 

"Not tonight. Now tomorrow--"

He mock-frowned. "Tomorrow you’ll be rested again."

Tyr looked from one to the other, shook his head and took his leave.

"Killjoy," Harper said to the ceiling, without rancor.

Dylan shrugged. "Tyr." He walked over and held a hand out to Harper. "I’m trying to decide if playing Tyr is enough justification for me to unearth another ale for you."

Harper took Dylan’s hand and tugged himself up. "It is, it is."

He couldn’t help laughing. "That’s one view, yeah."

He could almost see the wheels in Harper’s head turn. "What’s the other one?"

He grinned. "You lost."

The debate lasted all the way back to his quarters.

  


* * *

Whistling tunelessly, Harper tinkered with the settings on the housekeeping thing he’d built. He’d have to think of a name for it, he usually did. Made it more his, although it was utilitarian enough that somebody else had probably already built their own.

"What _is_ that thing?"

He looked up to see Beka leaning a hip on his worktable. "Rommie’s a neat freak. I’m just accommodating that need for her."

Beka arched an eyebrow. "What, it polishes the floor?"

"It cleans, polishes and not just the floor." He regarded the thing happily. It looked a lot like a weapon, of course, since he’d scavenged things to build it, but, heh, it was a thing of peace. "It’s the prototype."

Beka narrowed her eyes. "That means you’re going to build a whole fleet of them?"

"Depends on how it works out." Harper patted the thing, looked up again. "I’m fine, Beka."

She studied him. "I want to know why you’re fine, Harper. You shouldn’t be fine. You should be having the screaming heebie jeebies every night."

He studied her back. "Are you?"

She folded her arms. "I’ve had a few doozies, yeah."

"Sorry." He sighed. No way, no how, was he going to tell Beka he could handle the nightmares since Dylan made regular appearances to stand at his back. It was nuts. Whacked. Completely insane. "I dunno, Beka, they haven’t been too much, that’s all."

She stared at him for a minute, sighed. "So how are you and Dylan doing?"

He rolled his eyes and got to his feet. "We’re doing fine. He’s not even mad when I beat him at basketball."

"Harper." Annoyed.

He felt his own irritation flare. "Beka, I am not doing Dylan. Dylan is not doing me." Even if, a treacherous inner voice whispered, they could be. He was damned if he was going to dissect his feelings for Beka at the moment; just fucking was one thing, but Dylan…Dylan confused him.

She tilted her head, arched an eyebrow. "Then why do I keep getting this vibe, Harper?"

He wanted to snarl at her. Took in a breath; Beka deserved better from him. "Maybe," he said, counting to ten, "Maybe you need to stop stealing my Sparky?"

"Very funny." Her eyes were shadowed when he looked back at her.

Harper sighed. She was worried about him. He knew she was worried about him. He’d never told anyone the entire story, but she’d gotten enough in the early days that he suspected she’d made some pretty accurate guesses. He counted to ten again. "Beka, I’m fine, honest. Dylan’s fine. We’re friends. We’re maybe even good friends. So far, that’s all. I can’t swear I won’t wig out again over the Magog, but hell, that coulda happened even without that hellacious download."

She gave him a long look, nodded. "You doing all right with Rev these days?"

The thought of Rev Bem made his skin twitch. "Well, yeah, I guess. I mostly try to stay away from him. I mean, I know he’s Rev, he’s not--" Bile rose in his throat. "He’s not like that. But seeing him makes the memories come back."

"I’m sorry, Harper." Her eyes were sad.

Harper shrugged. "He’s Rev. I think he gets it. I hope he gets it. I just can’t be around him right now." He flashed her a cocky grin. "Gotta get myself back down on the ground."

"We’re in space," Beka reminded him drily.

"So to speak." He rolled his shoulders. "Gotta get my cool back."

One corner of her mouth lifted. "Fair enough."

"Gotta rebuild my rep." He was on a roll, the words just rolling like they should. "Get my mojo working."

"Harper." She eyed him.

He shut his mouth, grinned again. She finally grinned back. "Okay, you’re fine. Think you can stay fine, at least for a while?"

He mimed twirling his gun. "Do my best."

"Good."

  


* * *

For once, they passed a relatively uneventful period broken only by negotiations, successful and unsuccessful. Dylan allowed himself to relax slightly. No armed skirmishes, no Magog, and even Harper seemed to have recovered his equilibrium and then some.

Whatever was happening between the two of them was happening slowly. If it was happening at all, and he wasn’t just imagining things. Well, at least from Harper’s side. 

He wished he was sure if it was a good idea. He wished he wasn’t sure it was a bad idea. He wished it wasn’t so easy to rationalize that this wasn’t a High Guard crew, this was a completely unlikely crew and issues of hierarchy were less… fraught than in the High Guard.

He brooded over that late one night, lying alone in bed. It shouldn’t be happening, he told himself, not very convincingly, it wasn’t a good idea at all. His awareness of that didn’t stop him from seeking Harper out to talk, to play basketball, to share an ale... to watch vids that were old when he himself was born, even.

Didn’t stop him from wondering what Harper’s skin felt like or what Harper’s mouth might feel like.

He was obviously having a midlife crisis. He was entitled, surely, at more than 300 years old with everyone he knew dead. He couldn’t have it publicly, he shouldn’t have it publicly. Harper was probably half his chronological age, and he was too tired to figure out what the ratio was if he counted the three hundred and three years. This just wasn’t a good idea, that was all. He’d have to have the crisis privately without giving any signs.

He could do it. He had training. He did _not_ need to fall for the galaxy’s most mercurial, fastest talking, brilliantly quirky engineer. 

His door chimed. 

"Lights," he said and swung his legs out of bed. "Come," he called and the door slid open.

Who should stand there but the galaxy’s most mercurial, fastest talking, brilliantly quirky engineer? 

Thanks a lot, he told the universe and sighed. Maybe it was a sign. Hell if it wasn’t; he’d _already_ fallen for the galaxy’s most mercurial, fastest talking, brilliantly quirky engineer. "Come on in, Harper."

Diffident look. From Harper. It set off his alarms. 

Harper hesitated. "Uh, did I wake you up?"

He shook his head, smiled ruefully. "No, I was counting sheep."

"Sheep?" Harper’s tone was baffled.

Harper was just a little more than half his age. Maybe. Maybe not so much. "It’s an old saying. Come on in."

Harper rolled his shoulders and did, but stood in front of the closed door, shifting from foot to foot. His chin came up suddenly. "You, ah, said I should tell somebody if I was having trouble sleeping." Almost truculent.

Ah. "Yeah? Me, too."

Oddly, Harper brightened at that. "Yeah? Didn’t think you had that problem. You know, the sleep of the virtuous or whatever it is."

"The just, I think." He laughed shortly. "Sorry, I’m neither."

"Don’t sell yourself short."

It was a rather unHarperish thing to say. He looked sharply at Harper. "You play cards?"

Harper brightened again, laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. "Do I play cards? Do I ever."

"I was afraid of that." Resigned, Dylan headed to the cabinet where he had a deck stashed. "We aren’t playing for money."

Harper grinned. "Damn." 

At least the diffidence was gone. Now he just had to keep from losing his shirt, hypothetically speaking.

Harper proved to be a dangerous opponent at gin, even if they were just playing for points. 

"You know," Dylan grumbled, studying his hand, "You could let me win once in a while."

"Can’t. That would be sucking up." Cocky grin. "You wouldn’t want me to do that, would you?"

Dylan eyed him, amused. "I suppose not. It’d wreck my view of you."

Harper snickered. "From maniac engineer to, um, hanger on?"

"That’ll be the day." Dylan grinned at his hand, laid the cards down. "Gin."

Narrowed eyes, sunny smile. "Let’s see, that gives you--"

"Shut up and deal, Harper." He tempered it with a grin; he did _not_ need to know just how far behind he was. 

Laughing under his breath, Harper gathered up the cards. "You got any Sparky cola in here?"

"No, I don’t. No wonder you can’t sleep." Dylan leaned back, considered. "Cold water, cold juice, hot kaff, hot tea and if you’d cut me some slack, maybe I’d offer you a little Scotch."

Unreadable look. "I’m not _that_ easy."

Where had _that_ come from, Dylan wondered. "I didn’t think you were easy at all," he said truthfully. Trying to figure Harper out was going to end up driving him crazy.

Harper looked up at him from under his eyebrows. "Beka says I’m a slut." Cheerfully.

That gave him a pang. "I sincerely doubt that."

Another grin. "That she says it or that I am."

Dylan looked at deft hands, shuffling the cards. "Both. Although, I suppose, neither would be any of my business." Mild tone.

Harper snorted and began to deal out the cards. Dylan watched for a moment, laughed softly. "You know, you have an excellent fallback career waiting for you."

Another grin. "Casino dealer?"

"Cardshark."

Harper laughed, a delighted sound that Dylan had never heard before. "I’ll remember that. I’ll take juice, I guess."

Dylan arched an eyebrow and got up to get it. There were, however, two bottles of Ollarian ale hidden behind the juice. Upon reflection, he took those instead, reckoning that might at least allow him to get _some_ sleep. Or, more to the point, might allow Harper to relax enough to get some sleep.

Harper’s eyes widened. "Juice?"

"Found these instead." Dylan shrugged. "Seemed more appropriate."

"Tryin’ to throw me off my game," Harper mock-grumbled, but he took the bottle anyway, sipped reverently. "I can’t believe you stocked up on this."

Dylan sat down, took up his cards. Ah, things were looking up. "I blame you, personally."

"Me?" Harper’s eyes glinted. "For stocking up?"

"For introducing me to it."

More delighted laughter. "Corruption of High Guard captain, wonder if that’s a misdemeanor or a felony?" 

"Depends on the prosecutor." Dylan took a swallow of his own, found himself watching Harper’s throat work and glanced back at his cards. They, at least, were promising. 

They played two more hands before Harper’s energy began to visibly ebb. Just as visibly, Harper was putting off the moment he had to return to his quarters. Finally, his own eyelids heavy, Dylan got up and began patting around Harper’s hairline.

"Hey, hey, don’t mess with the hair," Harper fended him off, eyes wide. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Trying to find your off button." Dylan tempered the words with a grin. "Harper, look, if you want to stay here tonight, you can."

Harper twitched. "I don’t--"

Dylan looked at him. "I not only don’t mind, I’d feel better." Which was only the truth. 

Brief flash of temper in Harper’s gaze. "You having nightmares?"

He allowed himself a grin, pretended to check for the off button again. "Yeah. About you getting into trouble. At least when you’re here, I know you aren’t."

Long, long look, and the temper faded to vulnerability. "If we keep meeting like this, people will talk."

"Do I look worried about it? Harper, there are only four other people on this ship." His mouth twitched, he couldn’t stop it. But then, he sobered, wondering again. "I’m not going to grab you while you’re sleeping, Harper. Sleeping means sleeping."

"Like I was worried about that," Harper muttered, but he twitched as he said it.

It made Dylan feel a little sad. "Well, clarity is always best." He ruffled the spiky hair and picked up the empty bottles, walked to the chute and dropped them in. 

Harper sat, expressionless, for a moment. "Yeah, okay, that’s good." Almost absently, and he gathered up the cards without looking at them.

Dylan returned to the table and took the deck, put it back in the cardcase. "We may need these again."

Harper looked up at him, clearly confused. "Why?"

Arching an eyebrow, Dylan wondered. "If we have trouble sleeping. I need to get my own back here."

"I don’t mean the cards." Harper’s expression was oddly vulnerable. Endearing. 

Dylan swallowed hard. "I like you."

Harper frowned at him. "I’m a pain in the ass."

He resisted the obvious rejoinder. "And I’m not?"

Harper’s eyes narrowed. "You’re Mr. Commonwealth. Perfect. Idealistic. Organized. I used to live in alleys. I learned to read from old posters warning about radiation and biological agents."

It stung a bit. "Idealistic, yeah, and mostly organized. But where the hell you got the idea I think I’m perfect--"

Harper bounced out of the chair, almost truculent. "You don’t have to think it, Dylan. You are."

"The hell." They glared at each other for a moment. "I can’t believe we’re having this conversation."

Harper rolled his shoulders, shrugged and ducked his head. "Sorry."

He risked it then, risked touching the curve between Harper’s shoulder and neck. "So I’m so perfect I’m not allowed to have friends? People I care about? What’s perfect about that?" 

A heartbeat of silence and Harper seemed almost to lean into his touch. "Okay. Fair enough." Muted voice. "I just don’t get it."

"We seldom see ourselves as others see us," Dylan said softly. "I don’t see myself as perfect."

Sudden wary look. "I’m not a pet project." Sharp tone, nearly bitter.

Dylan laughed shortly. "If that’s what I thought, I’d be working on Tyr. More of a challenge."

And just that quickly, Harper laughed, eased up with him. "Good point."

It let him relax; he used the hand on Harper’s shoulder to turn him toward the bed. "I’m tired, and if I can’t find your off button, you at least have to let me lie down."

"Old man," Harper told him pityingly. "We didn’t even play basketball tonight."

He made a rude gesture. "Give me a break. I’m not that much over 340."

Harper’s grin followed him to the bed.

  


* * *

"So the guy looks at Beka and says, ‘Tell your girl to shut up, willya.’" Harper gestured, as much as anyone could gesture lying on his side stretched out across the foot of a bed. "Believe me, I stepped out of the way in the nick of time."

Dylan, propped against the headboard, stretched comfortably, trying not to stare too obviously at Harper, currently wearing a pair of _his_ sleep pants. Silky comfortable fabric that draped quite nicely over Harper, and one of Harper’s own cotton shirts, that also fit very nicely. When the _hell_ had he become quite so conscious of Harper’s body? Not just the usual parts, but Harper’s chin, Harper’s ears, Harper’s hands… perhaps it was simply the denial of his own need to touch. 

Whatever was happening between them, it was happening slowly. Carefully. 

He was no wiser than he’d been weeks ago about whether or not there was, in fact, anything happening, but it had become routine to have Harper show up sometime early in the ship’s night. He hadn’t addressed it, and it was obvious Harper had no intention of discussing it, but Harper stayed the night as a matter of course.

It gave him hope.

They were sleeping together. Unfortunately, that’s all they were doing at night. Sleeping. Chastely. 

Dylan’s dreams were starting to take a lurid turn, and he was morbidly sure that he was going to end up by having adolescent wet dreams, which was surely going to send Harper screaming back down the corridor. 

He showered a lot. It had the dubious advantage of granting him privacy that not even Rommie would violate. Of course, the day Harper violated it, all bets were off, he wasn’t sure he was capable of that kind of self-control. He knew he wasn’t. "Did she leave him alive, at least?"

Harper stretched, catlike, and only the knowledge that it wasn’t a deliberate tease kept Dylan from simply grabbing him. "Oh, yeah. She only broke a few bones. Rothger’s thugs were always very polite after that." Sleepy look at Dylan. "Off button time?"

Dylan smiled. "Please. Not that I don’t enjoy the stories."

"Old man." Almost affectionately. "One shift on the bridge, a game of basketball, and you’re worn out."

"Puppy." He smiled again, watched Harper push himself up. This was getting embarrassing, he was looking at Harper’s feet and finding them… not just endearing, but erotically attractive. 

Harper tugged the covers back and slid in. Turned his head to study Dylan, brows drawn together. "You ever think this is seriously weird?" Serious look and a vague gesture at the bed.

"It’s a little different," Dylan told him, trying not to laugh. It wasn’t Harper he was laughing at. "But oddly comfortable." More gently. 

Harper seemed to brood for a moment. "I know I’m a pain." Apologetically. "I just--" Helpless look, and the shadows were back in Harper’s eyes, something haunted and unhappy.

It made Dylan’s heart turn over. "I know." Softly. "You’re not a pain, Harper. This isn’t a charity. If I didn’t want you here, I’d kick your ass out."

Sudden wicked grin, banishing darkness. "Masochist."

Dylan shrugged comfortably, tucked his legs under the bedclothes. "Sue me."

Another long serious look and Harper leaned forward, so tentative, so hesitant. A moment of stillness for both of them. Dylan held his breath, opened his arms as he received--God, a gift--a hug. He closed his eyes, allowed himself to breathe in the scent of Harper’s skin, let his fingers curve gently around the nape of Harper’s neck in something that wasn’t quite a caress. For a moment, Harper seemed almost to melt against him, to allow that near-caress. 

Then, abruptly, Harper jerked back, his face scarlet. "Off button time," he said, "Gotta lot to do tomorrow, we’re getting to Karti’n, gotta make a list of what we need--" Too fast, too nervous.

He put his fingers gently on Harper’s lips, smiled affectionately. "Is this it? I still haven’t figured out where it is."

Deep breath, long vulnerable look, and then a cocky grin. "Hey, nobody else needs to know as long as I do."

"There is that," Dylan agreed and shifted to get under the bedcovers himself. "Lights down, Rommie."

"Night, Rommie," Harper added and rolled over so that his back was to Dylan. Even if they weren’t more than a hand’s breadth apart. 

Unable to prevent himself, Dylan rubbed the spot between Harper’s shoulderblades. "No nightmares." It had become a habit, and he suspected a sort of talisman for Harper. 

Certainly Harper seemed to lean into Dylan’s palm, at least for a moment. "Nope." Already drowsy.

There certainly hadn’t been any nightmares for either of them of late, for long enough that they were both sleeping well at night. What that said about whatever the hell they were doing was positive, he thought. 

He hoped.

For the moment, it was enough to have Harper’s tentative trust. He wasn’t going to let that down if it meant taking three showers per ship’s day. Or more, he added, mordant humor at his own condition.

  


* * *

"Harper, can I ask you something?" 

Harper looked up from the schematics on his viewscreen to see Trance leaning on the back of his chair. "Yeah, sure." Thoughtlessly, and then, a little warier. "I guess." Nobody was forcing him to answer.

"Well, I went by your quarters last night to see if you wanted to watch a vid with me, and you weren’t there." Innocent Trance look.

He felt himself turn scarlet. "Oh. Um. Dylan and I were playing cards."

Limpid look. "In his quarters?"

The curse of fair skin. "Yes," he muttered and looked back at the viewscreen.

"Oh." Her tone was perfectly normal, not suggestive at all, but he didn’t dare look at her. "I think it’s nice that you and Dylan are getting to be good friends." Innocently. "He likes you a lot, Harper. I know you didn’t think so--"

"I know," he muttered, certain he was going to end up looking like he’d been sunburnt. "Yeah, it’s nice." He rolled his shoulders, tried to breathe deep to cool his face down.

"And who knows," Trance said, patting him.

Oh. He needed a bucket of ice water, he needed a cold cloth--but when he dared glance back, Trance was over talking to Rev Bem.

It made him shiver a little, partly with anticipation, partly with terror. Who knew what the sparkly purple babe could see in the future. He glanced over at Dylan, surreptitiously studied Dylan’s profile. If only he wasn’t so damn much bigger. If only he didn’t look like some sort of freaking Greek God. If only he’d never met Bannon in his life.

Dylan’s head turned suddenly, Dylan looked at him, offered him an affectionate smile.

It made him shiver again. On the other hand, Dylan wasn’t even in the same universe as Bannon. Dylan was… out of his experience, but he tentatively offered a smile in return, blushed idiotically, and turned back to the screen so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.

And then grinned just as idiotically.

  


* * *

Another normal series of days. An almost dull series of days, not that he was complaining; it was rather restful. Dylan looked around the bridge of his ship and sighed inwardly, not unhappily. 

The only flaw in this series of days he could isolate was the way that Beka and Trance were behaving toward him.

Beka kept looking at him. Oddly. Solicitously. Searchingly. It made him acutely uncomfortable. Trance kept patting him comfortingly. God help him if he asked either of them if they knew where Harper was. Thank God, Rev and Tyr and Harper were behaving normally. Well, Tyr was a bit more remote than usual, but that was hardly abnormal for Tyr.

He wondered morbidly if his insanity had only become visible to the women. Or if Trance had "seen" something with regard to his relationship with Harper, and, good God, he did not even want to think about that.

At the moment, Trance was leaning over Harper’s shoulder and watching whatever the hell Harper was doing. It intrigued him, but not enough to embarrass himself by walking over to join them.

Beka looked at him again. Oddly.

"What?" he asked, suddenly impatient.

Startled, she shook her head. "Nothing."

"You’re watching me."

She blinked. "I am?"

"Yes, you are." Irritable now, Dylan rose. "Walk with me."

"I--" she began.

All hell promptly broke loose behind him. Harper flung himself out of his chair at Tyr and punched Tyr in the face. A solid crunch testified as to the power behind the punch, and Tyr seized Harper by the throat before slamming him against the bulkhead.

He was already moving before the sound of impact. Tyr’s expression had been deadly, focused, and his intention obvious; he chopped at Tyr’s arms, took a strike at the side of Tyr’s neck, and the only effect was that Tyr, still making a serious attempt to throttle Harper, slid to his knees, eyes glazed. Prying at Tyr’s hands helped somewhat, but Beka, clearly, was thinking more clearly, he heard the sound of a force lance and Tyr’s fingers released Harper’s throat. Tyr fell sideways, stunned.

Harper took in a wheezing lungful of air, battered hands coming up to his throat. Dylan had never heard anything so welcome, and his shock shifted briefly to relief before turning to fury. "What in the name of everything holy just happened here!" His voice rose exponentially as he rose to his feet and looked around the bridge.

Trance was standing, her mouth open in shock. "Um." Blink. "I think Tyr said something to upset Harper."

He stared at her, heart still thumping too hard against his ribs. "You _think_?" he snarled. Harper generally bore with Tyr’s excesses pretty well, using his mouth as his only weapon. This was... bizarre. "I’d say you’re right about that, Trance. What the _hell_ did he say?"

Trance shifted from foot to foot for a moment, then hurried to kneel at Harper’s side. "Harper, can you breathe?"

Rev was standing frozen, clearly as shocked as Trance. On the floor, Tyr began to stir and Beka aimed the force lance again.

"No!" He was so angry he was shaking. "Don’t stun him again. If he attacks again, shoot to kill."

Beka gave him a startled look, but nodded, her mouth a thin line. 

Tyr raised his head, started to move, and Dylan planted a boot on one of Tyr’s wrists. "Don’t. Move." Tyr’s nose was leaking blood, and was obviously broken and the only thing that made him feel was savage satisfaction. "I want an explanation."

Tyr scowled at him blearily. "He hit me!"

"That doesn’t justify your trying to kill him," Dylan grated the words out. "You’re confined to quarters. Rommie?"

"Here, Dylan."

He turned, saw her avatar standing there, smiled grimly. "Escort Tyr to his quarters and see that he stays there, please."

Tyr hissed as he pushed himself upright. "He attacked me!"

"He punched you in the nose," Beka snapped. "He didn’t try to rip your head off." 

Rommie stepped forward and Tyr stepped back, looked from Beka to Dylan and back again. It was some consolation to Dylan that his movements, as he followed the avatar, were painful.

He dropped down beside Trance. "Harper?" Heart thumping again.

Blood shot eyes, and Harper’s throat was turning an alarming shade of purple.

"I don’t think his larynx is damaged," Trance said doubtfully. "We need to get him to the infirmary."

"Absolutely," he snapped and carefully levered Harper up. Harper shook his head and tried to say something, but all that emerged was a croak. There was a pink smear on the bulkhead; Dylan touched the back of Harper’s head and brought back bloody fingers. It cranked his rage up higher. "Shut up, Harper," he growled and put an arm around Harper. "Beka, give me a hand here. Trance, go."

Beka took Harper’s other side; they walked him there, and Harper kept trying to talk, without much success. "If you don’t stop, I’m going to gag you," Dylan snarled, and Harper subsided.

He was too angry to think, too worried about Harper to let himself wonder what Tyr had said to set Harper off. But the scans showed that Harper’s head was harder than it had any right to be, and the cut on the back of it was easily sealed. Serious bruising and some swelling on his throat, but no crushed larynx and he could breathe, albeit with a somewhat alarming wheeze. 

Relieved, Beka patted his shoulder. Dylan searched and found a stylus and pad and handed it to Harper. "What happened?" he asked grimly.

That got him a sullen look and Harper scribbled something on the pad. Taking it back, Dylan read aloud, "‘He just fucking pissed me off, okay?’." He felt his own neck swell, but it was with rage. "The hell it’s okay, Harper. You don’t go around attacking your shipmates! I can’t have that!"

Beka was avoiding his gaze. Trance, behind Beka, was looking decidedly uncomfortable. Harper’s jaw came up stubbornly and he glared at Dylan. Made a rude gesture.

Dylan wanted to punch something, starting with Tyr. Although at the moment, he wasn’t entirely sure that Harper was immune. "You’re confined to quarters, too," he snarled. "I’m going to get to the bottom of this, dammit, so don’t think it’s over. It’s not fucking over."

Beka’s eyes widened slightly, but she was still patting Harper. He knew where sympathies lay there, he thought, and all but stomped out of the med-bay. 

  


* * *

A brisk walk through the ship’s corridors allowed his temper to cool and the obvious answer to reveal itself. "Rommie," he said to the ship, "I need a playback of the incident on the bridge."

Rommie obligingly piped it in for him. Whatever Tyr said was inaudible. Harper looked at Tyr and muttered something. Trance looked at Tyr, frowned. Tyr said something else inaudible. "Rommie, I need the sound enhanced."

Brief hesitation and the playback began again. He could hear everything, and what he heard made him, at once, more angry and less angry.

"Playback off, Rommie." He really, really did not need to see Tyr strangling Harper again.

It was time to deal with Tyr.

  


* * *

"The personal sexual habits or proclivities of your shipmates are not subjects for comment," he told Tyr coolly. "High Guard regulations and Commonwealth law prohibit it. Obviously, you have your own opinions. If you insist on voicing them in the terms you used to Harper today, you force me to discipline you for breaking those regulations and laws."

Sullen look. "He’s attempting to gain advantage, I merely--"

"I know what you said. The benefit of having a bridge log." Dylan stood just inside the door, hands linked behind his back. "Harper, of course, will be disciplined for attacking you. However, I’m forced to agree with Beka--a punch in the nose does not require strangulation as punishment."

Tyr scowled at him. "You cannot deny--"

"If," Dylan grated, "You ever attack any of the members of this crew in such a manner again, I’ll shoot you out the damned airlock myself. Do you understand?"

Sullen nod. 

"As to the nature of any personal relationship that I may or may not have with Seamus Harper, it isn’t any of your business. This is not, regrettably, a truly military unit. Issues of hierarchy may exist, but are somewhat less... formal." Grimly. He wondered if he were rationalizing his own behavior. At the moment, it didn’t matter. "I don’t intend to discuss this with you again, Tyr. If you’re not comfortable here, perhaps you should rethink your career before I rethink it for you." 

Long look. Abrupt nod. "I understand." A growl.

"Good." He stood there a moment longer. "There will be no second chance on this." Warningly. He couldn’t let there be, not for anyone. It was sheer luck that Harper wasn’t dead. Trance, while she wasn’t helpless, was just as vulnerable to Tyr. Beka at least could make a good showing and might even take Tyr down, but he couldn’t take the chance. "You might consider where your own best interests lie, Tyr."

Another long look and nod. "I understand."

Dylan pressed the door control, went out. Waited until the door slid shut and slammed on the external lock. He wasn’t looking forward to his next stop. It wasn’t going to be easy, balancing command with emotion, but he’d been doing it since this all began, and he was going to have to keep doing it.

Harper was sprawled on his back, a cold pack resting on his throat. Beka sat at the foot of the bed; she gave him a nervous look and rose to face him. "Trance said probably someone should keep an eye on him because of the concussion."

He nodded. It was probably true, but in any case, he couldn’t fault Beka. Not in this case. "I need to speak with Harper," he told her quietly.

She glanced back at Harper briefly and nodded. Paused as she reached the door. "Don’t be--"

"Beka." Just as quietly.

She swallowed and nodded, went out. 

He swallowed hard himself. "Harper, you can’t go around punching out your shipmates." Reasonable tone. "I realize that you were provoked."

Harper sat up suddenly, glared at him. "Did Trance tell you?" His voice was still a croak.

"The bridge log." He sighed, suddenly weary. "You’re confined to quarters for three days. Standard disciplinary action."

Another glare and another rude gesture.

He rubbed his forehead. "I don’t have a choice, Harper." Tiredly. "Do you understand? At all? I’m still the captain of this ship."

Long sullen look. It hurt. A lot. He took a step forward, stopped. "Look, can I stop being the captain for a minute?"

Harper’s expression shifted, a combination of wariness and puzzlement. He nodded at Dylan, winced and put a hand to his forehead.

He winced in sympathy, but thank God, Harper was willing to listen. He walked toward the bed, sat down beside Harper, at a complete loss for words. Finally reached out and delicately touched Harper’s face. He supposed it was promising that Harper didn’t jerk away _or_ punch him. "How’s your head?"

"Aches." Rusty, painful voice. "What else?"

He dropped his hand. Looked away from Harper. "I have to balance between, you know that." Wearily. "Between our friendship and my responsibilities and duties. I can’t have people punching each other out, it’s not only dangerous, but divisive." He glanced sidelong, but Harper’s expression was unreadable. "I hope to hell you were at least defending your own honor, I can take care of my own."

That cracked the impassivity. Harper snorted. "Fuck that, I’ve got no honor to defend." Trace of bitterness.

"Matter of opinion." His throat ached. He looked at Harper and Harper looked back. He couldn’t help himself, he raised his hand to lightly graze the edge of Harper’s jaw. Harper sat still for a heartbeat, and then leaned slightly into his touch. Relief made him dizzy, he cupped the side of Harper’s face, nothing more, and felt lightheaded. If that wasn’t a sign of how far he’d fallen, he didn’t know what else could be. Harper leaned in further, and suddenly he had Harper in a gentle hug.

"He made me mad," Harper muttered. "Really, really mad."

He nuzzled Harper’s hair shamelessly. "I noticed."

Harper’s arms tightened briefly. "Didn’t think he’d try and kill me, though." Soft rasp in Dylan’s ear.

"He won’t again." Grimly. "I’ll shoot him out the damn airlock myself if he so much as raises a hand to anybody on this crew."

Harper sighed, began to draw back; Dylan released him instantly. 

"I gotta lie down." Apologetically and Harper sank back, put the cold pack on his throat again. 

"I think that’s an excellent idea." Dylan agreed, but he couldn’t resist the need to touch, to reassure himself. Harper’s hair was damp, and Harper turned his head slightly into Dylan’s touch, eyes half-closing. "I told you before, there are only four other people on this ship, Harper. At least three of whom could care less about the nature of our relationship as long as we’re not at each other’s throats." Softly, and with a half-smile, inviting Harper to smile at that.

Instead, Harper closed his eyes, turned his cheek against Dylan’s palm. "I know." Muted. "I know Tyr can be a son of a bitch, but--it just made me mad. I’m not trying to… curry favor with you by--" The words stopped sharply, but Harper didn’t move. 

"Believe me, I never would have thought that." Evenly. "I do pay attention, Harper. You aren’t that kind of person."

"You don’t know what kind of person I am." The words were muttered. "You think I’m one of the good guys, Dylan. And I am, sort of. Now. But you don’t know what it was like."

Harper was right. He didn’t. He couldn’t. "No," he agreed, "But I know that sometimes, under extreme circumstances, we do what we have to do to survive." He cupped Harper’s face. "Whether you like it or not, Harper, you’re on the side of the angels, even at your most snappish."

Harper was silent for a long moment. "I wish that was true." Wistfully.

Dylan sighed. "I’m not perfect, Harper. I’m far from perfect. I have a rigid view of what’s wrong or right, a need to be in control after years of command. I do my best, that’s all. From what I see, you do the same. Lack of sainthood doesn’t make you a villain."

Harper grinned suddenly. "Somebody has to keep an eye on me. For the concussion."

Dylan’s mouth twitched. "That’s true." Judiciously. "I have a responsibility to make sure you’re all right."

Harper’s grin widened. "Yeah, you do."

"Of course, there’s the dilemma. It’s also a pleasure." Dylan winked at him, dizzy again with relief. 

"Live a little," Harper told him generously. "You don’t enjoy yourself enough. And I have my own deck of cards now."

"Are they marked?" He arched an eyebrow, delighted in the rusty cackle. "How can you play gin lying down?"

"With great dexterity." Harper wiggled his eyebrows. "I bet I can still beat you, concussed or not."

"If you can beat me lying down and concussed, we’re going to have to find another game," Dylan told him drily. "Where are the cards?"

Another delighted cackle. "On top of that shelf. We could always play strip poker."

Dylan nearly stumbled. He looked back at Harper, judged the seriousness of the remark. "Not in your current condition," he said dismissively. "Too much excitement."

"Oooh, ego." Harper snickered.

"For me," Dylan said quellingly.

Harper leaned up on one elbow. "I think we need to get you a good mental health professional." Light tone, but there was that odd vulnerability again. 

"It’s only been a little over a year, my psych readings were perfectly normal." He found the cards and returned to the bed. "Lie down."

Harper studied him for a minute. Grinned suddenly. "You really are nuts, Dylan." Affectionately. "I’ll deal first."

Smiling, Dylan handed him the cards. It was all right, they’d get past this. Of course, he still had to cool down enough to think rationally about Tyr.

He could get past that, too.

  


* * *

"But Trance," Harper said plaintively, "We could win a _lot_."

"But we don’t need it right now, Harper, it would be wrong." Trance’s tone was chiding.

"Sure we do. We need it."

Behind the two of them, Dylan shook his head, exchanged a grin with Beka. Kart’in was a mining world, and the station seemed largely to consist of casinos, virtual brothels, and bars. He and Beka would meet with planetary representatives on the higher side of the station and Trance and Harper were off, as Harper had gleefully said, to do a little shopping, a little gambling, a little drinking.

Hopefully, Trance could divert the worst of Harper’s antisocial urges.

Harper cast a look over his shoulder at them, grinned at Dylan and guided Trance toward the nearest casino entrance.

Tyr had declined to go onstation. Tyr had been tightlipped even for Tyr of late, but his behavior had been impeccable. Which meant that Dylan had Rommie watching his every move, violation of privacy notwithstanding. 

"Okay, Dylan," Beka sighed. "I know it’s absolutely none of my business, but what _is_ going on with you and Harper."

"You’re right," he told her blandly, "It’s none of your business."

She mock-punched him in the shoulder. "Well, whatever it is, it seems to be working well. He’s almost obnoxiously cheerful lately."

"A cheerful Harper is an obnoxious Harper? I think you give me too much credit." He sighed unconsciously. "You know, Beka, I don’t expect you to violate Harper’s confidence, but it might be helpful for me to understand more about Harper’s... ah, past."

Long look at him. "Well, you know, he was in refugee centers as a kid."

He nodded, paused for a moment to watch Harper still trying to talk Trance into using her odd abilities to win big. His mouth curved involuntarily. "He has a scam for everything. I should find that appalling, I know, but somehow, it just seems like Harper."

Beka chuckled. "True. It might be different if any of them worked out."

"We’d have to put a stop to them," he agreed, his eyes still on Harper. 

"For his own good." Beka snickered, then turned to him. Studied him. "Let me think about what I can tell you, okay?"

Startled, Dylan nodded. "Thank you."

She took his arm. "And now we’d better not keep the politicians waiting." 

"Absolutely not." He put a hand over hers for a moment. "Thank you." 

"Don’t thank me yet," she said seriously, "You’re probably not going to enjoy hearing it."

He was certain of that.

  


* * *

"Harper, we’re supposed to meet Beka and Dylan at the Kloo’en soon." Trance put her hands on her hips. "Are you getting addicted to this machine?"

"I’m not even plugged into it," Harper told her reasonably. "It’s just that I’m winning."

Her tail twitched. Not a good sign. "Harper."

Sighing, he collected his chips, stuffed them into the pockets of his pants. "All right, all right, all right."

She shook her head at him.

He grinned. He wasn’t really delaying. Not really. Dylan was buying them dinner at one of the station’s fancier restaurants, and while that was fun, seeing Dylan relaxed was even more fun. Corrupter of High Guard captains, that’s what he was, and damned if he didn’t enjoy it. Damned if he didn’t enjoy Dylan.

Never mind he was terrified out of his mind sometimes.

Trance poked him with her elbow. "You’re grinning again." Teasing a little.

He felt his face get hot. "Trance!"

She giggled. "Harper, you’re so funny."

"I’m not funny." He scowled, embarrassed.

"Okay, not funny. Sweet."

That was even worse. "I. Am. Not. Sweet."

She grinned at him unrepentantly. "Seamus Zelazny Harper, why don’t you just admit it. You’re happy."

"I’m--" He shrugged suddenly. "Well, yeah, I guess I’m happy."

Trance giggled again. "Good."

Something inside him unknotted. "Yeah, I guess I am." He eyed her warily, expecting more, but she just smiled in the weird, wise way she had when she wasn’t being majorly cute. "Let’s go, we’re going to be late."

They had to thread their way through the casino crowd, and he was tempted to take a short cut across the station, but Trance balked abruptly. "No, not this way, Harper."

"It’s faster," he said impatiently.

"Not this way." Dead serious Trance.

It gave him pause, he looked down the empty corridor. Nodded. "Okay. This way okay?" Pointing.

Her brows drew together. "No, this way." She tugged at his arm. "The main corridor."

Troubled, he let himself be tugged. "We’re going to be late," he said, but the protest was pro forma. The day he ignored Trance’s advice--he’d be better off just shooting himself in the head. "What’s down there?"

"Something unpleasant," was all she would say.

They were late, of course, and it was weird, seeing Dylan looking for them with an impatient expression that shifted to simple pleasure when he caught sight of them. 

"Have you bought out the station yet?" he asked Harper, arching one eyebrow.

Harper grinned. "Trance wouldn’t play."

"Thank God," Beka said. "Harper and money--that’s scary."

He rolled his eyes at her. "How’d you guys do?"

"Progress has been made," Dylan said, his tone judicious. "But more talks tomorrow."

"Figures. I’m hungry, let’s eat."

"You’re always hungry," Beka muttered, and the V’lin hostess glided up to them, interrupting the conversation.

Dinner was lavish in the V’lin way, and he and Trance wrangled over dessert, to Dylan’s obvious amusement and Beka’s exasperation. "You’re worse than kids," she told them and finally cut the last piece of sweet shri in half. "There."

Dylan chuckled. "I can’t entirely blame them, it’s delicious." 

"I’m going back to the casino," Harper said, taking a bite. "I was winning."

Dylan arched an eyebrow. "I thought you said Trance wouldn’t play?"

"One of the machines," Trance explained. "I told him they have the odds set to suck him in, but he was having too much fun."

"You better be using your own money," Beka warned.

Offended, he patted his pockets. "I’m just using what I won."

"And how much did that take?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

"Most of what he had," Trance put in helpfully.

"Get used to doing without Sparky cola," Beka warned

"That’s ship stores!" He looked at Dylan. "Right?"

"I’m staying out of this one," Dylan said prudently. "I leave things like this to my first officer."

Trance giggled and patted Harper’s shoulder. "All right, Harper, I’ll help this time."

He brightened. "Yeah? Let’s go!"

Beka rolled her eyes, and Dylan’s expression was resigned. "Go ahead, I’ll take care of this. Which casino?"

"The L’erth," Trance said and yelped when Harper nearly stepped on her tail, bouncing up out of his chair. "Watch it!"

"Sorry, sorry." Genuinely contrite. "Come on!"

Trance gave him a long look, took her last bite of shri and let herself be pulled up.

"See ya there," Harper told Beka and Dylan.

"Don’t get mugged," Beka told him, but her mouth quirked.

"We haven’t won that much yet." He grinned. "And when we do, we’ll have you and Dylan along with us."

"Thank God," Dylan muttered, but he winked at Harper.

It kept him feeling warm inside all the way back to the casino.

  


* * *

The casino was noisy and bright and crowded. And a little on the seedy side, which meant that the patrons varied pretty widely. Dylan chose to pass on gambling and found a table in a corner across from the wheels and dealers. "This place--" he muttered to Beka, who had apparently appointed herself his escort.

"It’s not one of the higher level places," she agreed. "But I’ve seen sleazier."

"So have I," he told her drily and tracked the blond spikes of Harper’s hair through the crowd. "They’ve found a patsy, looks like."

Her elbow jabbed his ribs. "Stop that." But her mouth quivered.

He grinned and accepted a drink from the waitress. The crowd shifted, and he could see both Harper and Trance at the table. "It seems harmless enough," he said, "Considering that the odds here are probably not the purest."

"Mmmm." Beka’s expression was amused. "Crime is its own worst punishment?"

"In some cases." He let his gaze shift around the room, taking in the other players, passersby, and observers on the far side of the room. No sign of any trouble, no fighting, and when one pair of players got a little out of control, they were speedily and quietly escorted out. Not such a bad place after all, he supposed, considering the efficiency and lack of bloodshed.

He looked back at Harper, who was gleefully muttering in Trance’s ear. No more nightmares, and they’d weathered the incident with Tyr well enough. Harper seemed to bear no grudge against either him or Tyr. He still wasn’t entirely sure what Tyr’s view of the matter was, hence his close watch on Tyr, but he was reasonably sure that Harper had dismissed it.

Someone else seemed to be watching the table where Trance and Harper stood. He frowned. "Beka, see that guy across the room, the patch over his eye?"

Beka shifted without making it obvious. "Yeah. What?"

"Probably nothing." Trance and Harper were both attractive, and there were others at the same table. 

"He’s watching the table." Beka shifted again, and he felt her focus. "I don’t recognize him."

"I’m just being paranoid, probably." He gave her a sidelong grin. "But you and the others _have_ made your share of enemies in the past."

"Not that many." Her tone was absent. "I don’t get a good vibe from him, but I can’t tell who he’s watching."

He nodded, sipped at his drink. "I don’t suppose it would be possible for you to talk to me now."

Brief startled look. "Here?" She looked around, shrugged. "Well, why not." Thoughtful expression and she sipped at her drink. "When he was a kid, you know he spent a lot of time in refugee centers. I’m not sure if he got separated from his family or if they abandoned him, but I think he was on his own when he was about twelve. The refugee centers weren’t exactly terrific places, Dylan. Better than living in the ruins, but only just. I thought _I_ had to grow up fast--he was more or less co-opted by one of the criminal gangs when he was about thirteen or fourteen." She stared into her drink. "When the gang moved off planet and into space, they brought Harper, and he broke free somehow."

He studied her profile. "You’re not telling me everything, are you?"

She turned her head, held his gaze. "Most of it isn’t mine to tell. When I met him, he was scamming to stay alive. I-- well, we sort of threw in together. At first, I think he was terrified that they’d find him. I gather he, ah, used some of their funds to get away." Her mouth quirked suddenly. "And then we both finished growing up, I guess. He turned into the Seamus Harper we know and love, and I turned into me."

He sighed. "How does he manage to deal with Rev, given his background?"

"I don’t know." She smiled again. "I think that’s just Harper. He’s got a lot of anger, but he diverts it into work or learning or... well, sarcasm."

He nodded, glanced over at Trance and Harper, but the crowd eddied and his line of vision was blocked for the moment. "Twelve. He’s never said if he lost his family or they lost him?" 

Beka grimaced. "No. Not really. He really doesn’t mention it, Dylan. Some of that I’ve just sort of put together by things he _has_ told me. He used to talk around the edges of what happened, but he doesn’t even do that much any more. I think that as far as he’s concerned, anything that happened before he got away doesn’t really exist." She sighed, took another sip. "I don’t know, Dylan."

He glanced back to check on Trance and Harper, and the crowd had parted, but they weren’t at the table. Frowning, he tracked the room. "Where did they go?"

She turned in her chair, frowning. "They-- they were just there."

He rose, searching the room. "I have a bad feeling about this." A very bad feeling, actually, and it was irrational, illogical, and wholly paranoid.

"Dylan, that guy with the patch is gone." Beka came to her feet. "I don’t like this at all."

He was already moving into the crowd toward the table. 

Together, they quartered the casino, and the only thing they found was one of the jeweled pins Trance had worn in her hair.

  


* * *

Harper rose slowly back to consciousness, aware that his arms were pulled up above his head and ached badly. His hands felt numb, and his head ached, and he couldn’t for the life of him remember what the fuck had happened.

"Harper?" Trance’s voice. "Harper, are you awake?"

She sounded scared, and that tugged him up faster, he raised his head to find himself hanging from a bar above his head. Great. Fucking great. "Trance? You okay?" He turned his head carefully, saw her lying on the floor, bound hand and foot. "Trance, are you okay? What happened?"

"I don’t remember." She wriggled so he could see her face. "Are you okay, Harper?"

He hated hearing her scared. He tried to wiggle his hands; they weren’t as numb as he’d thought, but he’d obviously been hanging there a while. It made his stomach knot to consider that; the last thing he remembered was standing at the gaming table while Trance raked in the chips. Had someone figured out that Trance wasn’t just lucky? "I’m okay, I think." Trying to reassure. "I just need to figure out a way to get loose. Where the hell are we?" He peered, trying to make out their surroundings. The room was shadowed, there was a small overhead for illumination, but it didn’t penetrate the gloom just beyond Trance. "What’s behind me, Trance?"

She wriggled again, squinted. "I can’t see too much, Harper, but maybe some shipping containers? I’m not sure, it’s too dark."

He needed to get free, had to. He kept a small knife in his boot, if he could get to it....

Stretching out his fingers, he curled them around the bar. Working his hands might get some blood flow back, and if he could swing his legs up, he could-- the hiss of a door opening and closing made him freeze in place.

Heavy footsteps, multiple sets of footsteps, which made his stomach knot again. Where the hell were Dylan and Beka? Had they been taken, too?

Two thugs, one male, one female--a woman from one of the heavy grav planets from the look of her frame--stepped into the light; the man grinned down at Trance, but the woman was expressionless. There was one more, someone who stood back in the shadows, out of the light.

Harper swallowed hard. "What the _hell_ is going on here?" Best defense, right. 

"Hello, Shame, my darling." Man’s voice, oddly familiar, and the figure in the shadows stepped into the light.

Harper turned to ice, frozen, paralyzed. The face from nightmares, from more than a decade past, a face too well remembered--Bannon. 

The years hadn’t been kind, Bannon’s eye was covered with a patch, and a long ropy scar snaked out from beneath the bottom edge of the patch, traveled down the side of Bannon’s nose and out across his face to the edge of his jaw. The smile was the same. "Have you missed me, my darling?"

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t swallow. Couldn’t think.

Bannon laughed softly, cruelly. "And who is this charming little creature? She’s very sweet, Shame, is she your friend? Your lover, perhaps? Pretty, pretty, but rather exotic. Your tastes must have changed." He leaned over to touch Trance’s cheek.

It broke the paralysis. "Not even, Bannon. She’s just a mark."

Trance’s eyes flicked to him; he gave her one quick desperate look, willing her to understand.

Bannon looked up at him, arched an eyebrow. "A mark? Ah, of course, my darling, you have a gift for scamming the innocent and the dull-witted out of hard earned cash."

"A mark?" Trance echoed it, her voice tearful. "Is that all I am to you, Harper?"

Thank you, thank you, he told the fates or gods or whatever might be out there. She’d gotten it, she had. "Get over it, sweetcheeks."

Trance promptly began to cry. "I thought you loved me!"

Bannon laughed softly. "My darling Shame loves only himself, my dear. I taught him very well." He stroked Trance’s cheek again. "Get him down. And be careful, he’s a very resourceful brat."

Harper swallowed hard, looked down at Trance very briefly. He didn’t dare ask, didn’t dare show any interest or concern in what Bannon did to Trance, it would make certain that Bannon would kill her. Bannon was right about one thing; he’d taught Harper very well not to show any interest in anyone else, to hide any feelings or concern he might have for anyone else’s welfare.

It had only taken three or four murders before Harper had finally gotten the lesson down.

This was going to have to be the best fucking scam he ever ran on anyone. "Goldie told me they killed you," he blurted, as if he didn’t want to admit it. "I thought you were dead."

Bannon rose slowly, eyed him with renewed interest. "Did he? How inconvenient of him. It’s a pity he’s dead, or I’d have a word with him."

"I know. I killed him. He said you were dead and I was his now." Calculated risk. Bannon’s possessiveness was psychotic.

The woman took out a small remote, pressed a button and Harper was released from the bar, fell painfully to his knees. "On your feet," she told him flatly. "Hold out your hands. Don’t move."

At least, he thought, at least he was free from the bar. He’d have to wait for the right moment, he’d have to be careful. Bannon had to be diverted from Trance somehow. "I waited until he was asleep and killed him, I took the money and ran."

Bannon was regarding him thoughtfully. "He touched you?"

Harper managed to shrug, held out his hands as ordered. The woman produced a short cable, hooked the manacles on each wrist to it. A little give, not a lot, but even a little was better than nothing. He kept his gaze on Bannon, hoping that his expression suggested terrified longing. The terrified part was genuine enough, maybe it would pass.

Bannon rose, took three long steps so that he stood between his thugs. "He touched you." Flatly.

"I didn’t have a lot of choice." He said it meekly, risked darting a glance to either side of Bannon. The story was partly true. He’d killed Bannon’s lieutenant Goldie. And he’d taken the money. But Goldie hadn’t forced him, he’d flirted with Goldie, gotten him drunk, and taken the only chance he could see in his future for freedom.

Another step forward, and Bannon reached out, lifted his chin, his grip bruising. "He touched you."

Oh, yes, it was working, it was; Bannon had forgotten about Trance, he was enraged at something that hadn’t happened. 

"I thought you were dead," he said again, very meekly, just a hint of tremor in his voice. The tremor wasn’t totally feigned. Bannon’s touch brought back memories he’d thought were safely dead and buried. He’d certainly never wanted to welcome them back into his brain. 

Please, please, he told Bannon silently, go a little crazy, just like old times. Send your buddies away, you know you never liked to have your fun beating the fuck out of me unless you were alone with me. He licked his lips, hoped like hell his face didn’t give anything away.

Bannon’s fingers tightened painfully. "Did he fuck you, my darling? Did he make you scream for him?" Silky, dangerous voice.

"It wasn’t my fault," he whispered and braced himself. Please, let this work. He didn’t care how much Bannon knocked him around, he had his knife, all he had to do was wait for the moment to get it. "He made me."

Bannon’s eyes glittered. "Get out," he told his thugs. "Get out now!"

The woman shifted, hesitated. "Ser Bannon?"

"Get out!" Bannon’s fingers pressed painfully on a nerve and Harper let himself moan, saw the manic joy in Bannon’s expression. "I’ll call you back when I’m ready for you."

He wasn’t the terrified fourteen-year-old any more, Harper told himself. He wasn’t helpless. 

Even if he was manacled.

  


* * *

In the stationmaster’s office, Dylan paced, waiting. The stationmaster watched him nervously, having had his fiftieth apology for ‘this little difficulty’ brushed aside.

Of course, Beka had made it absolutely clear that if the stationmaster didn’t stop stalling and chuckling and suggesting that perhaps Harper and Trance had gone off to ‘play’ in private, she was going to rip his head off. He should be ashamed of himself, Dylan thought, for letting her do that, but he’d merely smiled icily and commented that his first officer was sometimes volatile.

Station enforcers were now searching from level to level. The planetary government officials were doubtless sweating a little with a warship the size of Andromeda hovering at the station, and at the present moment, there was a childish pleasure in imagining that.

The vidscreen on the stationmaster’s desk came to life; it was Tyr. "I believe I’ve isolated Trance’s life signs on the Zed level. There are a number of warehouse units there. Three or four human readings, but Harper’s are not sufficiently unique for me to identify."

"Where on Zed," the stationmaster asked, coming back to life. "Which sector?"

"C sector, if the schematic is correct. Between 1105 and 1112."

The stationmaster’s fingers were already dancing over the controls of his dataconsole. "Perhaps 1108? The others are apparently empty at the moment, but 1108 was recently leased to Ser Chazric Bannon."

The name meant nothing to Dylan. He turned to look at Beka, saw her go chalk-white. Oh, God, something very bad, it seemed his feeling had been too damnably on target. "Get your men down there. Tyr, meet us there. Come armed."

Tyr nodded and the vid screen went blank. "Beka," Dylan said, his tone sharp. "Let’s go."

Her color was returning, and with it, a certain savagery that he was relieved to see. "Fast," she agreed.

They left the stationmaster behind at the first lift.

  


* * *

"Harper!" 

His entire body hurt and the spray from Bannon’s throat had covered him liberally. He didn’t want to listen to the voice, he ignored it. Rolled the limp body over, one-armed. He thought his other arm might be broken. Not that he cared much. Bannon’s throat gaped like a second mouth, and the blood no longer pulsed. There was no pulse, no heartbeat when he pressed his ear to Bannon’s chest.

"Bastard," he whispered and hitched up his pants one-handed. "You’re dead." Briefly, he considered sliding the knife in between Bannon’s ribs, just to be sure.

"Harper!" Scared voice. Familiar voice. He wiped his face with his good arm, tried to focus. Trance, oh, gods, Trance, and he stumbled up to his feet. There were still the thugs, of course, but it depended on whether or not they were loyal to Bannon or just hired help.

He didn’t know. He’d have to deal with that later. He managed to get his clothes back in something resembling order so he didn’t trip, headed for the overhead, since it was hard to see. Blood on his eyelashes, he thought, and tried to swipe his eyes clean, but his arm was bloody, too.

"Harper, Harper." Trance was crying, and this time he thought it was for real. "Harper, I think if you cut, you can get my hands free. I’ve got it stretched a lot."

He knelt beside her, examined the plasteel cable that bound her wrists. Dropped the knife and fumbled at his belt. Spotwelder, yeah, he thought he remembered it was still hooked on. Amazing. He adjusted the beam, sliced through the cable and sank back on his heels, exhausted, holding his broken arm against his chest. "Trance, the other two are outside somewhere." His voice sounded a little thin to him, he hoped he wasn’t about to pass out.

Trance was wiping his eyes with her sleeve, a little frantic. "Harper, is any of this yours?"

He tipped his face up. "I dunno. I don’t think too much of it is." 

Noise from beyond the door made them both jump; he bit back a moan and grabbed the knife again. "Get behind me, Trance."

"Harper--"

"Now!" He bared his teeth at her, and she stopped wiping his face, shifted behind him.

The door dented abruptly, he braced himself, took in a deep breath and pushed himself up to his feet. Or tried. Trance helped, and she was still crying. A sudden loud noise and the door more or less blew open. He was damned glad they hadn’t been in front of it, and how in the hell was he supposed to defend against a gun of any kind with a fucking utility knife?

Dylan’s head appeared first.

His knees wobbled and Trance steadied him as he went back down. Great. Dylan. Beka. And of all people, Tyr. He didn’t want them near him. Or Trance. And knew it for insanity.

Dylan, at least, had sense. Dylan knelt some little ways off, his expression wary. "Harper, we’re here. I’m sorry it took us so long to find you."

His throat hurt abruptly. Dylan would despise him. He’d just murdered Bannon. Never mind Bannon had more than earned it. Never mind that Bannon was the reason he had held back for so long, been afraid for so long. He wondered what Dylan would think of the things he’d done while Bannon had him. He turned to Beka instead. "I killed him."

She crouched, touched his face. "Harper, we need to get you taken care of. Is your arm hurt?"

"I think it’s broken."

Trance was still holding on to him. He shifted, turned, put an arm around her. "Get Trance out of here." 

"Not without you," Trance told him earnestly. "Come on, Harper. Let’s both go."

That made perfect sense. He nodded, levered himself up with Trance’s help. Finally looked back at Dylan. "I had to." Dylan’s expression was so unhappy that it made _him_ hurt. "I didn’t have a choice."

"No," Dylan said softly, "You didn’t."

He stared at Dylan for a minute. Sighed and let Trance help him toward the door.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible after all. 

But like he’d always said, the universe hated you, you had to just get over it.

  


* * *

The broken arm was easy to deal with, Dylan thought, watching from the doorway as Trance wrapped the arm for extra support. Harper had insisted on using the shower on the med-deck, and Trance had supported him in this. Clean of blood, his face was badly bruised, but it looked as though his body had taken the brunt of the beating. Beka hovered nearby, but even Beka couldn’t get close without wiring Harper up. Trance was the only one he allowed to touch him at all.

It hurt and hurt badly, seeing the stony expression, seeing the bruises, seeing the flat sheen of Harper’s gaze. Harper was still in there somewhere, he knew that to be true, and he was going to get the story out of Beka no matter how hard he had to press her.

Harper sure as hell wasn’t going to tell him. He’d let Harper down. He’d let Trance down. He’d relaxed, had a few drinks, and forgotten that the entire universe was hostile territory. He’d failed to protect his crew, his friends. It left a sick, hollow feeling in his middle, and right now he wasn’t sure that was going to go away any time soon.

"Trance is unhurt, except for her wrists."

Tyr’s voice made him jump. "What?"

"Her wrists," Tyr obligingly repeated. "From the bonds. Apparently she damaged them while struggling to free herself."

He nodded blankly, his eyes still on Harper. Finally forced himself to turn away. "Tell Beka I want to see her in my quarters when Harper gets settled."

Bland look, but Tyr made no comment, only nodded.

He was finishing his third scotch when Beka finally arrived. Third and last, he thought, looking at the empty bottle, but if there was ever an occasion that called for getting drunk alone, this was one. "How is he?"

"He’s asleep. Worn out, Trance wouldn’t give him anything." Beka looked as unhappy as he felt. "She’s with him. Says he took a couple of good thumps to the head."

"Did she tell you what happened?" He gestured for Beka to sit.

Beka sat, rubbed her face with both hands. "Apparently, they were hit with tranq darts at close range. Hypnotics, Trance thinks, because neither of them remembers anything beyond the gaming table. Evidently, Bannon’s people got them out quietly and quickly, and took them to the warehouse unit." She stopped, rubbed her face again.

He waited. When nothing was forthcoming, he took the last swallow of scotch and slammed the glass down. "Who the _hell_ was Bannon?" His voice rose in spite of the control he’d hope to keep.

Beka jumped slightly. Bit her lip. Her eyes were overbright, and he felt brief regret. Only briefly. "Bannon," she said, and there was a tremor in her voice, "I can’t be sure, Dylan, he hasn’t told me a lot of it, but I think Bannon was his owner."

Owner. Bile rose in the back of his throat. "From the time he was what, twelve or thirteen? Until he was twenty or so?"

She nodded mutely. 

The signs had been there. He had merely failed to understand them. Oh, Harper, he thought, aching and put his head in his hands. "This is what you meant," he said thickly. "The first time you braced me about Harper."

"Yes." Faintly. "It’s only been women for him since then. I was afraid for him."

"You were right." Self-loathing made the bile rise again. "God. God. God."

"It’s not that way!" Beka was near tears. "You didn’t push him, he cares about you, dammit. He’s been _happy_ , Dylan!"

It hardly mattered at this point. He wondered distantly if Bannon had managed to rape Harper before Harper had killed him. "How badly is he hurt?"

Beka stood up, came up and lifted his head forcefully. "Bannon beat him, Dylan. That’s bad enough without making it worse in your mind."

His eyes burned badly, he closed them. "That’s bad enough, yes." Hoarsely. "But if he--"

"He didn’t." She crouched in front of him. "I made Trance tell me. Yes, he was planning on it, he wanted to, but Harper isn’t the boy Bannon enslaved. He’s a tough little bastard, and he waited for his chance and he cut that fucker’s throat." She shook at him. "He’s shocked and he’s hurting right now, but he put his own goddamned nightmare in the grave. If he could survive that goddamn download and stay sane, this is a cakewalk."

He had to tilt his head back to keep the tears from rolling down his face. "I hope to God you’re right."

"Harper is strong, Dylan. You said it yourself."

There was that, yes. Something to hook his hope on. Not for their relationship; he couldn’t imagine there was any hope for that, aside from what they’d built so far. That was good enough. It had to be good enough. As long as Harper was okay, he could deal with bittersweet might-have-beens. As long as Harper was okay. "Yeah," he finally managed to say roughly. "He _is_ a tough little bastard, isn’t he. Practically got himself out of that unit--didn’t need the cavalry at all." He tried to smile, having appropriated one of Harper’s phrases.

Beka’s mouth quivered. "Yeah, he did. Kept Bannon from killing Trance, too." She rose and hugged him hard. "Don’t--Dylan, don’t give up on him. Unless he wants you to."

He laughed suddenly, shortly. "And how am I supposed to know, Beka? I didn’t know any of this."

"He would have told you. He would have." Her eyes were too bright again. "I know him, Dylan. You do, too, if you think about it."

He’d like to have thought so, but he’d been so stupidly, willfully blind. "Yeah." Shakily.

She hugged him again. "Get some rest. If I know Harper, he’s going to be up and around tomorrow like nothing ever happened. He’s going to need someone to chase those nightmares away."

If he could deal with his own, he thought, but nodded.

He brooded for a while after she left, finally let the whiskey push him into doing something he damned well knew was bad judgement. He went to Harper’s quarters.

Trance was there, reading, and Harper was curled on his side away from her, his back to Dylan. She looked up when the door opened, gave him a wide-eyed look.

He was glad he’d taken his boots off. Moving to the bedside, he crouched, wanting badly to reach out and touch Harper. "How is he?" He whispered it.

Trance looked at Harper, blinked hard for a moment. Rose from the bed, drawing Dylan with her to the other side of Harper’s quarters. "He’s--he’s going to be fine, Dylan. He’s not quite fine now." 

It wasn’t quite what he had meant. "How _is_ he, Trance?"

She put her hand on his arm. "He’s upset." Softly. "He’s afraid you’re going to hate him. He’s remembering too much. It’s going to take a while, Dylan."

His throat hurt. "I know that. You need to keep telling him that’s not going to happen, Trance."

Her eyes were very bright. "I will. Just give him some time, Dylan."

He nodded, looked back toward the bed. "He has nightmares, still. You just have to touch him--" He was an idiot, Trance knew this. He gestured vaguely. "You know."

"I know." She stood on her toes suddenly, gave him a quick hug. "He’s going to be fine, Dylan. I promise."

He gave her a long look. Nodded finally and left, before he woke Harper.

Time, Dylan kept telling himself. 

  


* * *

One day. Two days. Three days. Beka was partly right, Harper was up and around, but he was brooding, and as absent as hiding in his workshop could make him. Dylan stopped by once. Twice. Three times. Each time, he got monosyllabic responses to his questions about the arm, the latest project, the all purpose polisher, or whether or not Harper was hungry.

Harper’s arm was fine, the latest project was just a repair on a vid game of his own, and the all purpose polisher was working out all right, he might make more if Rommie didn’t object. Oh, and he wasn’t hungry.

On the third day, Dylan gave up. He doubted he’d maintain that surrender for long, he was as stubborn as Harper in his own way, and he was damned if he was going to lose everything, even Harper’s friendship, over his own ineptitude in keeping watch.

Even if he deserved it.

On the third night, he slept badly, dreaming of Very Bad Things that dissolved into formless fragments each time he started awake and left a lingering sense of failure and sorrow each time.

The fifth time he woke, though, he wasn’t dreaming, his wrists really were being firmly held at his side and someone was more or less straddling him, and in the dim light from the other side of his quarters, Harper was looking down at him, practically nose to nose.

He went utterly still, instantly wide awake. 

"I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do," Harper mused. "Do I?"

"Of course not." He whispered it, and it was hard to hear himself over the thumping of his heart. 

Harper’s face loomed nearer, and then there were warm lips on his own, the delicate brush of the tip of Harper’s tongue. He gasped a little, surprised, and Harper drew back. Oh, hell, hell, hell, he’d blown it before he’d even realized what was happening, but no, Harper leaned down again, kissed him again, a little more boldly, shifting enough to let him understand that Harper was _kneeling_ on his forearms. Kneeling carefully, for all of that, but definitely kneeling.

It lent the kiss a weirdly erotic and surreal ambience. It also kept him from putting his arms around Harper, which he reckoned was Harper’s aim.

Harper, thus in control, licked the inside of Dylan’s mouth, stroked across the edge of a tooth, and sucked on Dylan’s tongue.

He was too old to feel like this, like all the blood in his body had suddenly pooled in his cock. Harper drew back and Dylan made a soft wordless sound of complaint.

"I don’t have to do this," Harper whispered, "But I want to."

He took in a shaky breath. "Good."

And was kissed again, quite thoroughly. Evidently Harper did, indeed, want to. Harper evidently wanted more, his mouth left Dylan’s and traveled to Dylan’s jaw. He licked Dylan’s jaw, bit it gently, and moved down Dylan’s throat. 

This was the weirdest seduction, surely, in the history of time, Dylan thought distantly, but it was hard to focus on that with Harper’s mouth exploring his skin. He did wish he could touch, but oh, good god, yes, that was his nipple, and it felt just as amazing as his fading memories of actual sex claimed it did. "Harper," he gasped, resisting the urge to simply yank his arms from under Harper’s knees

Harper ignored this, worked his way luxuriously over to the other nipple and repeated his attentions.

This was going to get embarrassing, Dylan thought, and bit his lip. "Oh, God, Harper." He was going to end up simply exploding like an adolescent, and thank God, Harper’s hips were not pressed against him--what the hell was he thinking? "Harper?" Almost a whine.

Harper continued to ignore him. Licked down the middle of his chest, and oh, yeah, he was definitely in danger of embarrassing himself, the direction Harper was going. The only good thing is that Harper was going to have to move his knees soon. "Harper!" Desperately.

Harper raised his head. "What?" Irritably.

He blinked, took in a shaky breath. "Would you mind coming back up here?"

"I’m busy." Another lick.

He bit his lip again. "Um, please?"

Harper shifted upward, looked down at him. "What?"

He tried to think clearly. It wasn’t easy, particularly when Harper’s body did press down against his. "Oh, God--are you in your right mind?"

Harper frowned. "As much as I ever am. What’s the matter with you, don’t you want to get laid again sometime before you die in defense of the ideals of the Commonwealth?"

"Not if you’re not in your right mind," he managed to say. "And would you mind very much losing the clothes?"

Harper sighed, flung himself sideways off Dylan. "You’ve screwed up the ambience."

He sat up. "You’re killing me, you know that?"

"Get over it." Harper wriggled out of his shirt, pulled it over his head and simply threw it over the side of the bed. "Better?"

"Marginally. Lights up .5, Rommie." The lights brightened slightly, giving him a better view of Harper’s expression. "Are you sure this is what you want to do?" 

"Don’t give me attitude, Dylan, you know you want to."

"Of course I want to, I’m not _dead_ yet." He held Harper’s gaze.

Abruptly, Harper shifted a little, crooked a finger at him and smiled winningly. Oh, yeah, like he could resist that, he thought, momentarily resentful. But he leaned in, careful of his weight, and oh, yes, kissing Harper was just as great as he’d thought with his arms pinned down. Sweet, sweet mouth, hungry kisses, and he forgot himself and put a hand on Harper’s hip.

Instant flinch. He sat up instantly. 

"Hey, there’s a bruise there." Truculent. "That’s all." 

Dylan narrowed his eyes. This was playing havoc with both arousal and sanity, he thought. "Where?"

He got a scowl. Harper tugged the pants down over one hip, and it was quite true, there was a bruise there. "Ah," Dylan said and bent to brush his mouth against it. "Sorry."

Harper’s scowl vanished. "Okay."

More kissing, and the kisses grew hungry again, he was relieved to feel Harper’s arousal against his thigh, slid his hand under Harper to the small of Harper’s back and Harper’s mouth got more desperate. He finally pulled away, breathing hard. "We’ve got about three layers of fabric between us. What do you say we lose ‘em?"

Heavy-lidded look. "I’m all for that." 

Quick yank of the bedcovers, and the two layers covering Dylan were gone; Dylan applied himself to removing the third, got his hand inside Harper’s pants and worked them down until he could fold his fingers around Harper’s cock. Definitely hard and hot, silky stretched skin and Harper bit his jaw, made a needful sound.

He had to be dreaming, he had his arms full of nearly naked Harper and it felt too damn good to be reality, considering the last several days, and he was damned if he was going to waste it, dream or not. He wanted more, licked his way around the inside of Harper’s mouth and then moved down across Harper’s jaw, down Harper’s throat. 

Harper’s skin tasted faintly of salt and soap and he sucked gently at the hollow of Harper’s throat, still damned careful of his weight. Harper squirmed against him, gasping, making incoherent sounds; fingers threaded in his hair and oh, yes, a nipple hardened under his tongue very nicely. 

"Wait, wait!" Harper tugged at his hair, a little desperate.

He raised his head. "What?"

Harper blinked. "What?"

He returned to what he was doing and Harper arched up. The sounds Harper was making would tempt a saint to fall, and he was no saint. He shifted to make sure Harper’s other nipple didn’t feel neglected, rested his weight on his arms. Harper arched up again, tried to hook a leg around him, which made him laugh into Harper’s skin. 

"Dylan!" A little desperately.

Okay, he knew what to do for that, he knew what he’d been wanting to do for a while, never mind he’d tried to keep from thinking about it. "Slow down," he muttered and slid down in bed, licking and nipping at Harper’s navel as he moved toward his goal.

"Dylan!"

He was beginning to appreciate Harper’s irritable reaction earlier. "What?"

"That’s not what-- I mean--" Deep, shaky breath. "Never mind."

He frowned a little. "Harper?"

Harper undulated underneath him. "No, really, never mind." Strained voice.

Reassured, he shifted further down, took hold of Harper’s rampant cock and closed his lips over the head, stroked his tongue around the rim.

Harper made a strangled sound and his hips arched upward. "Fuck, Dylan--" Helplessly and Harper’s fingers found his hair again. "Oh, that’s so--"

He took that for approval, which was something of a relief. He hadn’t done this since his reckless twenties when he’d been in and out of bed with lovers of both genders, but memory appeared to be serving well. Harper’s hands had a white-knuckled grip on the bedclothes. .

That was good. What was better was the taste and feel of Harper against his tongue; he found a rhythm, reached down to stroke himself in that same rhythm. He was so close to the edge himself he ached, he wanted that for Harper, wanted pleasure for Harper as intensely as _he_ needed it. Harper whimpered, made harsh wordless sounds interspersed with the occasional, "Oh, fuck!"

It drove him harder, and Harper forgot the last bit of control, thrust hard, fucking Dylan’s mouth and throat and exploding with a cry that made him distantly hope Rommie didn’t assume someone was killing Harper. That was all he had time to think before following Harper over the edge. Somehow, somehow, he remembered to gentle down when Harper whimpered, remembered to release Harper and slide back up.

Long kiss and oh, god, yes, this was incredible, this was a gift he hadn’t expected to get, Harper’s arms around him and this kiss--and then Harper pulled back and punched him weakly in the chest. 

"What?" He poked Harper’s ribs ungently. "What the hell was _that_ for."

"You took care of yourself!" Irritably. "I wanted to-- hell, I wanted to."

It was hard not to laugh. "I’m not so old I can’t recover, Harper."

Harper came back into his arms. "You damn well better." Grumbling. He bit Dylan’s jaw, not hard, licked it. Sighed. "That was… incredible."

He bit back, kissed Harper’s throat. "I thought so." Harper’s head tilted back, he took the advantage and sucked gently on the spot beneath Harper’s ear, got a decided quiver. "You’re pretty incredible yourself."

"It’s official now," Harper muttered, "You’re insane."

He ruffled the short hair at the nape of Harper’s neck. "That’s one opinion."

Harper sighed and disentangled himself. "Beka thinks I should tell you about Bannon." 

Dylan disapproved of the disentanglement and tugged Harper back gently. "If you want to." Softly. "You don’t have to--"

"Do anything I don’t want to do. I know." Harper didn’t quite resist, but then surrendered abruptly, put his face against Dylan’s shoulder. "But Beka makes sense. Sometimes."

Dylan ruffled the spiky hair, thinking hard. "Harper, you did what you had to do. I don’t know everything, it’s true, but in the circumstances, you really had very little choice."

Harper shuddered. "When I was a kid… Bannon knew me." Sudden tension in Harper’s muscles, and the hand on Dylan’s chest curled into a fist. "He owned me."

He didn’t say anything, only rubbed the nape of Harper’s neck. 

"For six years, he owned me." Hollow voice. "I didn’t get away until Bannon moved offworld, he was trading in ‘iamon."

"How did you get away?" He asked it softly. Harper flinched at the sound of his voice. "Harper, there isn’t anything you can tell me that’s going to change this, that can change what I feel or what I think of you."

He didn’t think it had helped, at first. But after a long, long silence, Harper began to tell him.

It was just as bad as the mental images he’d had since Beka had told him. He simply held Harper, listening, occasionally rubbing the back of Harper’s neck.

"I think I was about twenty when he moved offworld, started making big deals. By that time, he had another kid, Martin, about fifteen and as crazy as Bannon. But he still wouldn’t let me go, I still couldn’t so much as be friendly to anybody without them ending up hurt or dead. Crazy bastard--there was this rat, back on Earth, I used to feed it, he was jealous of the rat, too." Bitter chuckle. "But see, I was getting too old for him, I knew that some night Martin would cut my throat out of jealousy, or Bannon would decide it was time to get rid of me. He sent me with his enforcer on a deal, drop off some ‘iamon, pick up the money, and once we had the money, I decided it was the best damn chance I’d had in years. I got Goldie drunk, only he wasn’t drunk enough, I had to kill him. Took the chips and ran like hell, scared out of my mind the station police would catch me before I caught a freighter."

"But they didn’t."

Harper sighed against his skin. "No. Some bad times later, I wasn’t good enough to get a real engineer’s berth, so I took some pretty dicey jobs. Met Beka at K’atis station, I was scamming to stay alive and waiting for something else to come along. She had the Maru and I needed work, and even though she knew I was scamming, she gave me the job."

Beka might drive him mad at times, Dylan reflected, but her instincts had been dead on. "Thank God for that. And even for that bastard Gerentex." 

Harper laughed a little, and his arms suddenly went around Dylan, almost too tightly. "So. That’s it. The life and times of Seamus Zelazny Harper. You want me to leave yet? You still like me? Want me?" Brittle wisecracking tone.

"Harper." Warningly. "I more than like you. You know that." Harper’s face pressed harder against him, he felt heat and wetness and cupped the back of Harper’s head. "Of course, now you might want to run screaming down the corridor," he murmured.

Smothered, shaky laughter. "Hey, if you’re insane, I intend to take advantage of it. I’m learning from Tyr."

"Let’s hope not." He was tired suddenly. Broken sleep, worry about the man in his arms--reaching across both of them, he tugged blankets over, settled back against the pillows. "Although I appreciate being taken advantage of in some respects."

Harper’s hand spread out across his chest, rested there. "Okay." Suddenly drowsy, and all tension just seemed to vanish, Harper was relaxed against him. 

That was a good feeling. "Lights down, please," he told the ship and the lights obligingly dimmed.

"Damn," Harper said, sleepily regretful. "I was gonna take advantage of you again, but I’m tired."

"I’ll take you up on it tomorrow." He patted the curve of Harper’s ass in a reassuring way. "And then some."

Faint chuckle, and Harper shifted slightly, put his arm across Dylan’s chest. "Oh, yeah." 

Smiling a little, Dylan closed his eyes. Opened them again. "How do I know I didn’t just dream all this?"

"I gave you a hickey. If it’s not there in the morning, you dreamed it all." Harper yawned. "You probably gave me one, too."

"Believe me, I’ll check."

Another sleepy snicker. "‘Kay."

And with that, in his usual abrupt way, Harper went out, body going limp.

Usually he envied that. Now, soaking in the warmth at his side, he found he didn’t.

He hoped like hell he _hadn’t_ dreamed it.

  


* * *

Harper rose and fell, surfacing to skim sleep and listen to Dylan’s breathing, sinking to dream of things that didn’t threaten his slumber. The last time he woke, the lights were up a little and he could hear the sound of the shower. He considered getting up, considered joining Dylan in the shower, but after three nearly sleepless nights, he was still sleepy. And comfortable. The pillows smelled like Dylan, and the bed smelled like sex, and the two scents combined were weirdly comforting, not to mention erotic.

If he’d known Dylan could kiss like that, he’d have jumped him a lot earlier than last night, he thought drowsily and the shower went off. He was facing the bathroom, and when Dylan emerged, still toweling off, he watched through his eyelashes. 

"...don’t want to be disturbed except for dire emergencies," Dylan said. "And Rommie, if you could send a drone with some breakfast, I’d appreciate it."

So far, it sounded good. Harper watched Dylan walk toward the bed, opened his eyes. "Did somebody say breakfast?" he asked sleepily.

Dylan’s grin was almost blinding. "I did," he said and leaned in to kiss Harper.

Weird. Good. Dylan’s hair was damp under his fingertips, and Dylan’s mouth was fairly demanding without being... scary. He pulled Dylan into bed with him, ran his hands over equally damp skin. Nice skin. Dylan was hairier than he was, and the difference was intriguing. And oh, yeah, Dylan was one helluva good kisser, not to mention hotter than a reactor core. Definitely nice skin. Oh, yeah, and unless Dylan was packing, he was just as glad to see Harper as Harper was to see him. Reaching down, he checked for himself--ha, right the first time.

Dylan laughed into his mouth. "Greedy."

"Oh, like you aren’t feeling anything," Harper scoffed and stroked upward, just to make his point. 

Dylan promptly pinned him, but since Dylan’s method of distracting him involved lots of licking and kissing and nipping, he found he didn’t mind that. Besides, Dylan felt pretty good on top of him. "You’re too damn big," he grumbled into Dylan’s hair.

"Sorry," Dylan said and licked the hollow of his shoulder. "I can’t be held personally responsible, blame my parents."

He snickered. "Good point. I can blame mine, too."

Dylan raised his head, studied him. "Bad joke."

"Yeah, but it’s true." Harper sighed. "Can’t be helped, right."

He got kissed again, not that he was complaining, and he was getting seriously turned on. Dylan kissed him hard once more and pulled away. "Breakfast is on the way."

"Hey!" Leaning up on one elbow, Harper scowled. "Where’re you going?"

Dylan laughed and stretched out beside him. "I’m not going anywhere. I’m giving you a chance to keep your strength up."

"Nothing wrong with my strength," Harper groused and then rolled over on top of Dylan, found himself thoroughly hugged. It didn’t do anything to damp down his desire to drive Dylan over the edge, but it felt scarily wonderful. More kissing that way, and he was losing himself in the pleasure of _that_ when the door opened and he practically leapt out of his skin.

"Easy, it’s just breakfast." Dylan nuzzled him, one arm still around Harper. "At least I hope it is." Wicked grin.

It was only a ‘droid, but it was also, therefore, Rommie. Harper found the space to be grateful that a) he was still tangled up in the sheets, and b) that he hadn’t managed to get rid of Dylan’s towel yet. Dylan flicked the edge back in place and sat up; Harper put his face in the pillow, mostly to hide his own embarrassment. Dylan, being Dylan, must have figured it out anyway; he felt a gentle hand on his back and knew he was being an idiot, but it felt good anyway.

He turned his head to see Dylan smiling at him. "Sit up and eat," Dylan suggested and leaned in to kiss his mouth. Sweet kiss. Gentle kiss. It made him shiver. He wasn’t used to that, either. 

Rommie had sent an assortment of things, including his favorite meat pastries. That embarrassed and pleased him as much as Dylan’s kiss, and they sprawled together companionably, the tray between them.

"Try some of this," Dylan said and held out a bit of what Harper thought might be fruit.

He opened his mouth, shivered a little when Dylan’s thumb brushed his lower lip. "I want you," he blurted. 

"You’ve got me." Dylan rubbed that thumb over his lip again, deliberately this time. "We’ve got all the time we need."

That made his stomach feel strange. Not in a bad way, exactly, but kind of the way it felt when he was about to do something reckless. Dylan’s expression made his stomach feel even stranger, but that was a good way. "Okay."

Dylan’s expression was all the reward he needed.

At least until breakfast was finished. Dylan was still wearing the damn towel, so he yanked at a corner, found himself pounced on, held down and kissed very thoroughly. He managed not to flinch until the news made it to his midbrain that this was Dylan and Dylan didn’t hurt, but Dylan drew back and studied him. "All right?" Softly.

Caught between toughing it out and admitting it, he tried to shrug. "Yeah. Monkey brain, it forgets."

Dylan kissed him gently this time. "And I’m too damn big." Softly, but he smiled, kissed the hollow of Harper’s throat, rolled onto his back. "Like I said, I’m yours."

Harper grinned. "Yeah? Okay, no preemptive strikes this time."

"Not this time." Slightly wicked smile.

He liked that smile. Leaned up over Dylan to kiss it, and a hand settled at the small of his back. That was nice, too. So far, there didn’t seem to be any major downside to this, and he ran his hand down Dylan’s belly, cupped Dylan’s hip. 

"Tease," Dylan murmured, but the mouth beneath his curved. He kissed it again, mapping the inside of Dylan’s mouth, learning Dylan’s taste. Dylan definitely knew how to kiss. Some people kissed like it was a formality they had to get past before the fucking started, but Dylan made an art of it; his hand slid up Harper’s back, up his neck to cup the back of his head loosely.

One night stands didn’t kiss like this. That was about the only really scary thing, but hell, he was doomed already, he knew it. Dylan didn’t know it, he didn’t think, and that was good, he hated having anyone know his weaknesses. If it was a weakness. 

Dylan’s cock leapt against his palm when he covered it. He shifted up, put one knee between Dylan’s legs and was tugged down so that his cock rubbed against Dylan’s hip. "Hey, I said no preemptive strikes," he protested.

Dylan’s tongue tangled with his own, effectively silencing him, at least for a minute. Then, releasing him, Dylan grinned. "That wasn’t a preemptive strike, that was just a friendly nudge."

He pressed hard against Dylan’s hip, palmed Dylan’s cock fast and hard. "Yeah?"

Dylan’s eyes went a little glazed. "Oh, yeah."

He licked his way into Dylan’s mouth for a long, satisfying minute, shifted back up and straddled the tops of Dylan’s thighs. Smirked down at Dylan’s somewhat disgruntled expression. "It’s my turn, remember?" 

Dylan shifted, tilting him forward, laughed. "I’m not complaining, it’s just that you’re a little farther away than I’d like."

He folded his fingers around Dylan’s cock, stroked upward, still watching Dylan’s face. 

"Mmmm." Dylan closed his eyes briefly. "There’s some slick in the cupboard next to bed."

Slick. He blinked. Opened his mouth, closed it and leaned over Dylan, pressing their bodies close together. Damn difference in height, and he couldn’t quite reach, but Dylan could and did. Handed him the tube. 

Whoa, this was good stuff, the Golden Past stuff, it warmed to body temperature almost immediately on his fingers. Dylan watched him, eyes heavy-lidded and that was fucking incredible, that he could shake the calm, professional mask away and see something... something real.

Something hot.

He shivered, stroked slickness against Dylan, heard a hiss of pleasure, stroked again. Dylan’s hips rose, Dylan pushed into his fingers and he added more slickness. It was hard to watch both Dylan’s face and Dylan’s cock, and he couldn’t seem to make up his mind which he’d rather watch. Dylan’s body was definitely worth exploring, but Dylan’s cock was hot and hard and he didn’t want to stop doing what he was doing. Pretty cock, fucking gorgeous man, especially now that the mask was gone. 

"Harper." Husky voice. Harper looked up and Dylan held out one hand. "Gimme." 

He blinked, figured it out and squeezed some of the slickness into Dylan’s hand, wondering. Dylan’s hips arched up, rocking him forward and then Dylan’s hand pressed their cocks together, slick and hot, Dylan’s fingers wrapped around his. He whimpered, stroked upward, and the pressure of Dylan’s cock and fingers was... sinfully good.

Definitely, Dylan wasn’t Bannon, definitely, definitely, definitely not. He let himself be rocked forward, Dylan’s other hand cupped his hip and he leaned in, Dylan leaned up--Dylan’s mouth and cock and fingers, and what the _hell_ had he been waiting for? He pushed his hips forward, his cock slid against Dylan’s inside their twinned grip and the sensation was going to make his brain melt. Fuck, fuck, this felt incredible, fucking incredible--and the hand on his hip slid up his ribs, stroked them, and Dylan’s fingers found one of his nipples, tugged gently, sending a jolt straight to his cock.

He gasped, surged forward and bit Dylan’s chin.

"Come for me." Hoarsely, and Dylan’s eyes were slitted against pleasure. "Please, ah, God, Harper, come for me, I want to see your face."

Well, like he had a choice after that. Panting, he pushed against Dylan, into their paired hands and suddenly came so hard his toes curled. Seeing his face, seeing him come must have triggered Dylan; Dylan cried out and tilted his head back, and Harper felt heat and slippery wetness splash against his belly. Panting, he let himself fold down on Dylan’s chest, nipped at Dylan’s collarbone.

"God!" Heartfelt voice that rumbled in Dylan’s chest.

"Mmmmmm." He wasn’t sure he believed in any god, but this might be enough to make him reconsider. He nuzzled Dylan’s chest, licked a nipple; Dylan’s fingers carded his hair. "You need another shower." 

"Mmmmhmmm."

"I need my first one." But he really, really didn’t want to move. At least not yet.

"Mmmmhmmm."

Didn’t sound like Dylan wanted to move yet, either. He squirmed around until their legs were more or less braided together and Dylan’s arm was around him. "Soon," he muttered and closed his eyes. There was definitely an upside to this, he didn’t have to talk, didn’t have to get right up and get dressed and get the hell out of somebody’s crib.

"Harper," Dylan breathed; he sounded as zoned as Harper felt, but maybe he wasn’t the only one who’d been sleeping badly.

"Nap first." Firmly, but then he closed his eyes, listened to the beat of Dylan’s heart. 

Oh, yeah, he was doomed all right. 

The question was, why wasn’t he feeling terrified?

  


* * *

"Dylan."

Dylan sighed, caught in mid-doze. "What, Rommie."

"Beka insists on speaking with you, she says it’s an emergency."

He opened his eyes, frowned. "Put her through, voice only."

"Dylan? I can’t find Harper. I’ve looked everywhere." Still calm, but the undertone of panic was obvious.

God bless Rommie for discretion, Dylan thought and Harper stirred against him, raised his head to grin rather wickedly. "He’s fine, Beka, I know where he is."

"Where is he?" Sharply.

Harper arched an eyebrow at him. He squelched the momentary impulse to laugh. "He’s fine, Beka, you’re going to have to take my word on it."

"Where is he, Dylan? I really don’t--"

"Beka," Harper growled, "Do I stick my nose into your life?"

There was a silence. "Never mind." Hastily and Rommie closed the connection.

Dylan poked a finger into Harper’s ribs, not gently. "If I’d known you didn’t care, I’d have just told her myself."

Harper snickered, put an elbow down to protect his ribs. "Like you said, there are only four other people on this ship, and at least one of them thinks we’ve been doing this for quite a while already. Hell with it."

Dylan felt his mouth curve. "Good point."

Harper nuzzled him aimlessly. "I need a shower."

"As long as we aren’t glued together."

"At least I’m not too hairy." Wicked grin.

He mock-frowned. "Lack of foresight on my part."

As it happened, they weren’t glued together, and watching Harper saunter toward the bathroom was an invitation to riot and rampage and ravishment. Fortunately, he wasn’t an adolescent, so Harper was safe. For the moment.

"You’re too damn tall," Harper complained, in the shower stall.

"That’s hardly fair," Dylan told him plaintively, "I don’t make remarks about your height."

"Or lack of it." Harper grinned at him. Rubbed shower gel over his chest. Harper had a very nice chest. Harper had a very nice body, even with the scars that had to be nearly as old as Harper himself was. He leaned down and kissed a pale line on Harper’s shoulder, licked it. Got an arm around his waist and Harper shivered, sighed. "Damn. If I’d known how good you are at this, I wouldn’t have waited so long."

He smiled against Harper’s skin, straightened. "Turn around, I’ll do your back."

Skeptical look, or a look that was trying to be skeptical. "Won’t you have to bend over to do that?"

He smirked. "Or get on my knees."

Harper’s gaze went unfocused briefly. "Oh." Slightly breathless, but Harper turned around. 

This universe, he thought, not without a twinge of sorrow and anger. More bath gel, and he rubbed it generously over Harper’s shoulders and back, up into the no longer spiky hair and Harper fairly purred, tilted his head back into Dylan’s hands, leaned back against Dylan’s body.

Warm, wet skin, slippery with gel, and by god, he was feeling the first faint heat of arousal again, never mind he wasn’t all that likely to get hard again this quickly. Arousal was more than blood flow and erection, he knew that, but marveled at it anyway. Relaxed now, decision past, Harper was surprisingly sensual, considering what Dylan imagined of his past. He worked his way back down Harper’s back, making good his threat/promise to go to his knees. Nice ass. Charming ass. Lovely ass. 

He worked the shower gel over firm muscle, into the cleft and Harper jumped slightly at that, laughed shakily. "Is that the military approach? No spot left unwashed?"

"That’s the Dylan Hunt approach," he murmured and leaned away to let the water rinse Harper’s back and buttocks, licked the cleft. Harper twitched a little, tried to look over his shoulder. He gently bit at a curve. "Lean forward."

Ragged breath, but Harper did, and he sank back on his heels, licked again, further down. Harper quivered under his tongue, gasped. Not an unhappy sound, that gasp, so he continued his explorations, stroked Harper open with his tongue. Harper was tense, but gradually relaxed, melting for him, whimpering a little against the side of the stall. He lifted his head, kissed the small of Harper’s back, licked it. "You want to turn around?" Not pushing too hard.

"You’re trying to kill me."

"Not even close. Nobody ever died of pleasure." He nipped at Harper’s hip, guided him around. Oh, yes, lovely flushed cock, more than half-hard, and it firmed up against his tongue, against the roof of his mouth. Harper gazed down, eyes half-closed, mouth half-open, steadied himself with one hand against the wall of the stall. He felt the blood pooling in his own cock, opened his throat to take Harper further in. He wanted to gorge himself on this, on Harper, on this moment, and god, god, god, it was beyond good to see Harper’s expression go lost and dazed, to feel Harper’s hands in his hair. He put a hand on Harper’s hip, urged him to movement, and Harper groaned, tilted his head back so that all Dylan could see was the taut line of throat and tendon, and even that was hotter than hell. 

Slow and luxurious at first, and he used his tongue to good effect, but then things moved faster, and Harper’s hips moved, almost involuntarily, as if he were trying to control the movement and simply couldn’t. He touched himself with one hand, stroked, and Harper pulled back suddenly, breaking free.

Alarmed, he looked up, but Harper didn’t look disturbed, he looked--incandescent. "I want you to fuck me."

Dylan’s cock leapt and his brain wanted to shut down, but then, irresistibly, he remembered Bannon. Or what he thought he knew about Bannon. His mouth went dry. "Harper--"

"Please." Harper’s gaze was intent.

He swallowed. Hell was being trapped between desire and terror, he decided distantly. "Are you sure that’s what you want?"

Harper frowned at him. "You don’t want to?"

"I want you any way you’re willing," he said truthfully. 

The frown deepened momentarily, then vanished. "Okay, so fuck me." Husky voice.

He couldn’t have resisted that voice if it had told him to walk into the Andromeda’s engine. "Not here," he said, managing to hold on to the rags of good sense. "In bed."

"You’re so traditional," Harper grumbled, and leaned down to kiss him. More accurately, to lick the inside of his mouth and throat, and god, Harper really, really liked kissing, was damned good at it, and he managed to get to his feet, fairly yanked Harper out of the shower stall and back to bed.

Harper was laughing by the time he was tumbled to the bed, but the laughter turned back to intensity in the next kiss. Dylan found the tube of lubricant gel, let some flare to warmth on his finger, veering from blind lust to absolute certainty that this was a mistake from breath to breath. Harper didn’t seem to agree with the latter, Harper was impatient, although he tensed for an instant when Dylan’s finger probed gently. 

"Easy," Dylan murmured. "Slow down, Harper, this isn’t a race."

Crooked grin, and Harper took in a deep breath, relaxed for him. He stroked in, up, and Harper made a surprised sort of sound, eyes wide. "Jeez, you do this often?" Hoarsely and Harper bit his lip. "That’s... really good." Faint surprise.

It could have led him to smugness. It didn’t. Instead, he could swear it broke his heart; he covered that emotion with a hungry kiss and Harper surged up to meet it, arm curving around his neck to hold him there. More slickness and Harper’s arm tightened briefly, Harper tried to rub against him. 

"Do it," Harper gasped. "Do it, do it, do it."

He bit Harper’s chin lightly. "Slow. Down." Although he honestly couldn’t be sure he’d be able to slow himself down in the tight clench of Harper’s body. Think, he told himself, think of pilot drills, think of Magog, think of anything but that.

It didn’t help, not when he knelt between Harper’s legs and Harper hooked one heel over his shoulder. "Harper," he said hoarsely. "Tell me what you like."

"Just do it." Harper arched restlessly, reached down to touch himself. "Hurry up, dammit, are you always this slow?"

That made him grin, distracted him enough to let him tease. "God, you have no patience." He leaned in, licked the shallow cup of Harper’s navel and Harper’s cock bumped against him, Harper actually whined in his throat. Focus, he told himself, and took in a breath, guided himself to press inward. Brief flinch on Harper’s part, he took a breath and waited, just barely held and even that much heat was enough to fry his synapses. He stroked a palm over Harper’s cock, turned his head to lick the inside of the leg hooked over his shoulder. 

"Yesssss," Harper hissed and pushed into him; he met that thrust with his own, slow and steady and Harper’s fingers tightened in the bedclothes, almost white knuckled. He hesitated, hanging on to the rags of good sense and Harper growled at him.

He supposed that was definitely a ‘don’t stop’ and rubbed his thumb over the head of Harper’s flagging cock, got another gasp and push and god, then he was gripped by heat and rational thought was obliterated for several heartbeats. 

When reason returned, he began to move, to touch, and Harper arched upward. 

"Oh, fuck!" Hoarse voice, and Harper tossed his head. 

God, so incredible, hardening again to his touch, eyes wide and fixed on him, moving with him. Dylan desperately wanted to shake that focus, wanted Harper’s expression to shift back to that dazed, effortful look and he worked for it, angling carefully, ignoring the growing need to just hammer into Harper’s flesh. Everything he knew, everything he felt, and it worked, it worked, by god, Harper went wordless on him, all heat and motion and heedlessness, and he needed, needed, needed to see Harper come before he simply exploded. Harper gifted him with that, and with more, with a faint distant air of astonishment when he cried out Dylan’s name and thrust into Dylan’s fist, and then he was past thinking, there was nothing but sensation, a fucking nova bomb strike of an orgasm, and he could feel it start at the base of his neck and the base of his spine and there was nothing but white light, sensation, and he rather thought he roared Harper’s name.

He caught his breath, still leaning over Harper, one hand on either side of Harper’s ribs. Dazed, hungry kiss and he returned it with fervor, never mind he was completely wiped out, mind and body turned to simple nonsentient protoplasm. Arms and legs around him, and he felt himself softening with a sort of distant regret.

Harper panted into his mouth. Threaded fingers into his hair to hold him there and he couldn’t help it, he laughed, breathless, let himself down to his elbows and sucked at the side of Harper’s throat. "You okay?"

"I’m dead." Harper was breathless, too.

He nipped. "Harper." Warningly.

"I’m fine. What the hell, you think I’m some delicate flower?" Almost irritable. "Seamus Zelazny ‘Delicate Flower’ Harper. Made of fucking glass or something?"

"Give me credit for some sense," he said, bluffing it out. "That doesn’t mean I don’t want to know you’re okay, asshole."

Harper’s eyes widened and he hooted, irritability gone. "You called me an asshole!"

He outwaited the heat in his face. "Well, if the boot fits." That earned him another kiss as a reward. It seemed a peculiar reaction, but he wasn’t complaining. Instead, he rolled them over as he eased out of Harper’s body, stickiness and all. "We’re going to be spending a lot of time in the shower today," he muttered. 

"And napping." Harper folded his arms across Dylan’s chest. "Damn, you’re good." He squirmed, winced fractionally. "Mostly good."

Dylan sighed. "Are. You. Okay."

Crooked grin again. "I’m okay. I’m, um, just a little out of practice, that’s all."

Something lay behind the grin, but it didn’t seem shadowed. It seemed more like... that astonishment he thought he’d detected earlier. "Just a little sore, you think?"

"Yeah." An admission, but Harper met his gaze. "Just a little. Don’t get yourself all knotted up. I wanted it."

He touched Harper’s mouth. "Yeah, well, next time, it’s my turn."

Another briefly astonished look, swiftly covered by a cocky grin. "Your command is my wish."

"That’ll be the day." He traced the line of Harper’s upper lip, got his fingertip licked. "Nap, hmm?"

"Sounds good to me." Unshadowed gaze.

He tipped Harper off him. "Stay there." Returned to the bathroom to clean up, brought back a damp towel and leaned down to give Harper a nicely lurid hickey on his bare stomach while doing the honors.

Harper, naturally, found this hilarious, and squirmed. "That tickles, dammit!"

Dylan drew back, studied the mark on Harper’s belly. "Good." Satisfied.

"Marking territory?" Harper grinned at him.

He touched the side of his throat. "Only fair," he growled, and tossed the towel heedlessly to the floor before pulling Harper back against him and tugging the bedclothes over them both. It was shamefully self-indulgent, he thought, but it wasn’t as if he wasn’t entitled to _some_ kind of vacation. Harper was certainly entitled to one.

Harper looked at him, expression suddenly vulnerable. "Your turn, huh?"

"Uh huh." He rubbed his fingertip over Harper’s eyebrow. "You okay with that?"

Tentative smile. "Oh, yeah. You better believe it."

He did.

  


* * *

Bannon didn’t figure in Harper’s nightmares these days. He still had bad dreams now and then, Harper reflected, but mostly those were just the too well remembered shit from growing up on a killing ground of a planet; Bannon showed up a few times, but since Dylan showed up there, too, he could live with it.

In fact, Dylan showed up just about everywhere. Dreams, workshop, access tubes--Harper grinned, remembering the day before when Dylan had just _happened_ to find him while he was replacing a few boards in one. The last thing he’d expected from Mr. High Guard was a sense of sexual adventure, not that he was complaining. 

It was so far from being remotely like Bannon that it was becoming easier and easier to forget. Well, maybe not forget, but put it into a deep dark hole in his mind.

And he was still beating Dylan at basketball, too. Dylan was getting more competitive these days, which was why he was standing in Dylan’s shower washing away what felt like gallons and gallons of sweat. Well, probably the wild monkey sex once they’d made it back to Dylan’s quarters had contributed.

He was just indulging himself now, since Dylan had gotten out.

"You’re going to be waterlogged." Dylan’s voice drifted in from the other room. 

Dylan was sounding a little annoyed. Harper grinned and shut the water down, found a large towel and wandered out, rubbing his hair dry. Dylan was stretched out on the bed, arms behind his head. Harper eyed that daunting vista without feeling at all daunted.

"You have an avaricious gleam in your eye," Dylan told him.

He grinned. "It’s not avarice, it’s possession." 

Dylan eyed him in return. "If I’d had any idea that you were an addictive substance," he complained, but didn’t have time to finish before Harper tossed the towel and straddled him. "Oof. How can anyone so compact weigh so much?"

"It’s all that ale." Harper licked his way into an entirely satisfying kiss and then licked his way back out again. He wasn’t the only addictive substance on board, even if Dylan didn’t want to recognize it. "You taste good."

"I should taste like shower gel. Or water." Dylan’s hands moved over his back. "You’re still damp."

"I wonder if I’m going to start craving shower gel," Harper muttered, deliberately oblique.

Dylan laughed, and Harper pressed his ear against Dylan’s throat. He liked the rumble when Dylan laughed this way. He wasn’t sure why, and darkly suspected some deeply twisted unconscious need, but hell if he was going to worry about it.

"Nicely compact," Dylan muttered and rubbed his face against Harper’s hair. "I wonder if I’m having a breakdown of some kind."

Harper raised his head, frowned. "Why?"

Dylan studied him, smiled. "On the other hand, there’s the addiction theory."

Narrowing his eyes, Harper considered, licked his own wrist. "I don’t taste addictive to me."

As always, Dylan’s size was deceptive, the bastard was damn quick, and he found himself on his back with Dylan over him. Nothing to complain about, not with Dylan’s tongue on his skin. "Very addictive," Dylan growled and bit gently at his shoulder. 

He felt the strange desire to purr. "Oh, good. But if you jump me on the bridge, I’m going to have to backhand you."

"There’s an intriguing idea."

"What, my backhanding you?"

Dylan bit him again. "No, jumping you on the bridge."

"It’s a good thing I know you’re kidding."

"Don’t get complacent. Even High Guard training isn’t proof against an addiction of this ferocity." Dylan licked the spot he’d bitten, put his head on Harper’s chest. "I must be getting old."

"Pretty lively for a geezer," Harper muttered and rubbed Dylan’s hair. He was so lame, he liked Dylan’s hair, liked touching it. "At least you were earlier."

"I need stimulants." Dylan sighed. "You okay?"

"You want me to backhand you now?" He said it conversationally. It didn’t bother him, really, not at this point. Dylan worried about weird things, like being too heavy on him and freaking him out, worried excessively about hurting him--not that he could really get pissed about that, not after--well, not after his past. 

Dylan smiled against his chest. Weird, he could feel the curve of Dylan’s mouth on his skin, knew Dylan was smiling. "Not particularly. This isn’t the bridge."

"I can be flexible."

This time Dylan laughed. "I noticed."

He grinned senselessly at the ceiling. "Hey, I’m still young, one of us has to be." 

"Brat." Dylan shifted back again, pulled Harper with him. "Grab the blanket."

He obliged, tugged it over both of them. Nice. Warm and comfortable. Scarily comfortable. He had a variety of things scattered around Dylan’s quarters at this point. Not that he’d moved in. Not that he planned to move in, even if Dylan had asked him to. But it was the usual thing, he tended to collect his things and packrat them around the ship. Old habits died hard. If Dylan wondered about it, he hadn’t asked; if it annoyed Dylan, he hadn’t shown it.

Dylan didn’t even bitch about the things he left on the floor. 

Much.

"Nicely compact," Dylan muttered, his eyes already half-closed; his hand stroked the spot between Harper’s shoulder blades.

He sighed and wrapped an arm over Dylan. 

Dylan’s hand slid down to his ass, patted it. "And with a sensational ass, too."

Startled, Harper felt his face get hot even as he started to laugh. "On the other hand, the breakdown theory is looking better all the time."

Eyes still closed, Dylan smiled. "Shut up and let an old man get some rest."

"Yeah, you need to keep your strength up. Or you’ll never beat me at basketball."

"Among other things." Dylan’s voice was faint.

Harper rubbed his cheek on Dylan’s shoulder, closed his own eyes. His face was still hot. Every time he thought he had Dylan sussed, Dylan surprised him.

Not that he was complaining.

  


* * *

"You left the Magog alive?" 

The horror in Harper’s voice fed Dylan’s own doubts and fears. "Yes," he agreed and turned to face Harper again. "They weren’t quite--ordinary Magog." He’d hoped not to have this conversation, but it was apparent that Beka had told Harper everything.

"Yeah, they’ve got genetic memory, great, wonderful." Harper was staring at him. "I don’t think that’s going to stop them from murdering the rest of those people."

Except perhaps for their spiritual leader, Dylan thought and looked away. "They are, in essence, those people, Harper."

"I’m sure that’s going to be real comforting to the people getting eaten alive by Magog young." Harper’s mouth twisted. "I can’t--what were you thinking?"

"I made a decision, Harper. It was, given the circumstances, the best decision I could make." He couldn’t confess his own self-doubt, not to Harper. Not now. "I didn’t have a great deal of choice."

"You had every choice!" Harper was chalk pale. "You could have made the same choice my family made! Dylan--" He stopped, swallowed hard. "I don’t get you, not at all."

Dylan opened his mouth, but Harper turned away, headed toward the door. "Harper," he said, feeling a bit desperate.

Harper’s shoulders twitched, but when the door opened, Harper went through.

Beka had warned him that Harper was unlikely to agree with his decision. Evidently, she’d been right. It didn’t help his own moral queasiness.

But it was lonely, sleeping alone when he finally went to bed. 

It was even lonelier having Harper avoid him for the next several days.

He was lying on his bed on the fifth day when his door opened and Harper entered. Harper looked no happier than he had, but he leaned against the wall and studied Dylan. "You don’t get it."

He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed. "No, you’re right, I don’t think I do." Softly. "At least not the way you mean."

Harper nodded, looked away. "My cousins," he began and stopped again.

After a moment, Dylan patted the spot beside him. "Why don’t you tell me." Still softly.

Harper considered that, nodded. Sat down next to him, not quite touching. "This isn’t the world you remember. The universe you remember. You can’t... you can’t risk giving everyone the fucking benefit of the doubt."

Dylan waited. When nothing was forthcoming, he sighed. "I know that. But essentially, this was a new subspecies, Harper."

"With genetic memory." Harper rubbed his face with both hands. "Yeah, I know. But they’re still Magog."

He considered that. "Does that go for Rev, too?"

Harper was silent for a moment. "I don’t know. Rev-- Rev isn’t exactly Magog, not inside."

"Do you really believe that?" He found he needed to know. "Because I don’t. I believe he _is_ Magog inside, with all the instincts and drives of his species. Somehow, his philosophy lets him transcend that, I think."

A shudder. "I have to believe that." Too softly, almost a whisper. "Or I’ll have to kill him."

That gave him a chill. "Tell me about your cousins?" An invitation, a suggestion, not an order.

Unfortunately, Harper did. In detail.

At least when it was over, Harper let himself be tugged closer, let himself be held.

"Do you trust me at all?" he finally asked.

Harper pulled back slightly, scowling. "That’s a dumb fucking question."

He touched Harper’s cheek. "I don’t know that I did the right thing, Harper. I weighed the options, and the needs of the situation, and that’s how I decided. I still don’t know if it was the right decision. I may never know." 

To his relief, Harper didn’t jerk away, Harper turned his face into Dylan’s palm. "I hope you don’t." Muted. "It’s better for you if you don’t."

That made his chest ache, so he remedied that by tugging Harper down with him, wrapped both arms around Harper. They lay in silence for a while and he felt the tension leach out of Harper’s body, let it slip from his own. 

"‘m tired," Harper finally muttered. 

"Me, too." He sighed. "Okay, on three, we can get up and get rid of the boots, at least."

Harper yawned against his chest. "And the buckles. I’m not sleeping next to you in buckles."

"Good point." Dylan smiled. "One, two, three."

Harper rolled out of bed and slid to the floor. 

It wasn’t entirely fair, Harper’s clothing was less complex than his uniform, and his boots were easier to remove. Harper, therefore, was already in bed by the time Dylan had managed to rid himself of both. Still, it was a pleasure to get into a bed already occupied by Harper, and a greater pleasure to put an arm around Harper’s waist and pull him close again.

Brief kiss, one given and received, and he was tired enough that it was enough for now. If Harper had been sleeping as badly as he had been, it was probably enough for Harper, too, but that didn’t stop him from sliding his fingers under Harper’s shirt to find warm, smooth skin. 

Harper sighed. "Feels good. More."

"Tomorrow," Dylan muttered and kissed Harper again. Then again, just because he could, because Harper had _talked_ to him, hadn’t just cut things off out of anger.

Harper laughed a little, burrowed into him.

That was more than good enough for now.

  


* * *

It was a relief when Dylan was back on the Andromeda after his _adventure_ with Elsbett Mossadim. For everyone. 

Harper didn’t admit that it was especially a relief to him until he went to Dylan’s quarters, sometime during ship’s night. Dylan had been visibly tired when he’d returned, and limping just a bit, which had entailed a visit to med-bay, but Harper hadn’t been able to catch him there. By the time he finished the last of the needed repairs, it was late; he tried to convince himself that Dylan was probably asleep, but his feet carried him to Dylan’s quarters anyway.

Well, hell, he hadn’t been spending much time in his own anyway, and besides, Dylan always acted pleased when he showed up.

Dylan was, in fact, dozing, fully dressed, one arm over his eyes. Like he’d been waiting. 

Grinning, Harper got rid of his boots at the door, padded over to the bed in his socks and damn near gave Dylan a heart attack, if the leap to an upright position was any indication. He nearly got his nose broken, but it just cracked him up.

"God," Dylan said, heartfelt, then, "Where the hell have you been?"

"Working." Harper sat cross-legged on the bed. "So, did ya get a clean bill of health? You were limping."

Dylan grimaced. "It’s embarrassing to admit, but she beat the hell out of me. Well, at least to a draw. She had a mono whip, holed the hull."

Harper’s pulse stuttered. "The Maru?" Disbelieving.

"I had repairs done." Dylan’s mouth curved a little. "You can check them out tomorrow."

Damn right he would. But for now-- he climbed into Dylan’s lap, planted his mouth on Dylan’s and made sure that the bitch hadn’t done anything to Dylan’s mouth. Heh.

Dylan returned that enthusiastically and slid both hands under Harper’s shirt. He was in favor of that, oh, yeah, and he could use his own hands to get Dylan’s tunic open. It was harder work to find bare skin, but Dylan was helpfully shrugging out of the tunic, and then raised his arms briefly to let Harper tug the shirt over his head. 

Oh, yeah. Definitely, oh, yeah. Miles and miles of Dylan and it just kept getting better, touching and kissing and he was so hard he ached. Dylan was hard, too, pressing against him, kissing him hungrily, and hell if that didn’t turn him on more, knowing that Dylan wanted him. Dylan was working on the waistband of his pants, he knelt up to make that easier and ran his fingertips over Dylan’s back, felt the roughness of scab.

He jerked his head back. "What the hell--" Leaned forward and peered. "What the hell happened to your back?"

Dylan’s hands slid into his pants. "What? Oh. Just a few scrapes. I told you, I was on the losing end of hand to hand for a while."

Something happened to turn his stomach into a knot. He stared at the scabs. "You were fighting her without your shirt?" Cold, cold, he was cold suddenly, and if that wasn’t so fucking stupid.... "Or maybe fucking her without your shirt." Scratches. From those lovely Nietzschean claws of Elsbett’s. 

Dylan sighed, pulled his hands free. "Harper--"

His stomach only ached worse. "She tried to kill you and you fucked her."

"Harper," Dylan said, more firmly. "That has nothing to do with us here."

Harper rolled off the bed, came to his feet. "No?"

Dylan’s expression was calm. "She needed someone. I was there. It didn’t mean anything, not really."

Oh, he was an idiot, totally fucking stupid, thinking-- well, whatever the hell he’d been thinking. "Meaningless sex, okay, I can get behind that idea. You’ve got me here for meaningless sex, and the babe in distress for meaningless sex."

Now Dylan looked distressed. "That isn’t true."

"Damn right it’s not." He snarled it. "Hey, I might be available, but I’m not easy. Hope you’re taking your vitamins, you’re going to need extra stamina if you’re going to fuck the Commonwealth back to life."

"Dammit, Harper--" Brief flare of temper, and Dylan took in a deep breath. "Harper, you’re overreacting."

He knew that. Couldn’t stop himself, either, hated himself for the weakness. "Fuck you," he said harshly and headed for the door. Grabbed his boots on the way out.

The worst thing was that he’d broken his own rules, he’d let himself feel something. The worst thing was that he couldn’t figure out why it hurt so much. The worst thing was that he shouldn’t have let it. He shouldn’t have cared. It shouldn’t have mattered.

He really, really hated Nietzscheans. 

He ended up getting drunk enough to sleep in one of the access tubes. It took a while and a great deal of serious drinking, but he managed it, even if it didn’t numb everything. 

How stupid could he get? Jealous. Hurt. He’d fucked up royally, he’d just cut out his own heart and offered it up, he couldn’t even blame Dylan for it. Not really.

Even if he wanted to.

  


* * *

Dylan didn’t go after Harper. He refused to go after Harper. Harper needed to cool down, he told himself, needed to see that he was overreacting and being ridiculous. There hadn’t been any agreement about exclusivity, none at all. Even with Sara, the woman he had planned to marry, there hadn’t been exclusivity. For one thing, given their respective careers, the long periods of time apart would have made such an agreement ludicrous.

The comment about fucking the Commonwealth back to life had been absolutely out of line anyway; he was furious about that, he told himself, and his concerns about the Commonwealth had not been remotely involved.

Elsbett had been-- entirely human. She’d needed someone, needed him.

So he slept alone, reckoning that he and Harper both needed some cooling down. 

The problem was that Harper was, after that, decidedly scarce. Beka was odd about it, too, which might only mean that she’d noticed Harper’s scarcity, and was wondering whether or not it was time to maim Dylan, or might mean that Harper had talked to her.

He found that possibility bothered him. A lot.

And since he was fundamentally honest with himself--or at least tried to be--he sat down alone on the observation deck on the fourth night with Harper still missing--and tried to figure out why.

He didn’t altogether like what he found.

Yes, Elsbett had been entirely human and needful, but he’d taken a beating earlier. He’d needed something, too, he’d needed to reassert himself, had needed to "win" in bed, since he hadn’t won on the Maru. 

As for the exclusivity argument--that might or might not be fair or true, but he knew, he _knew_ that it had taken Harper a great deal of courage to trust him. He’d been deliberately obtuse, ignoring any possibility that he’d caused Harper genuine pain, ignoring the fact that Harper might see his physical intimacy with Elsbett as betrayal.

Particularly considering that Elsbett was Nietzschean. 

He rested his forehead on his hands, distantly aware that his head had begun to ache. Dammit, he’d been just as self-serving in his own way as Elsbett, at least in his rationalizations. And caused just as much damage to someone he cared about. 

Cared about, hell. Someone he loved.

He rubbed his eyes and sighed. His muscles still ached from Elsbett’s expertise at hand to hand, hunting Harper all over the ship was hardly an attractive idea, but he was going to have to do it.

He might have destroyed Harper’s affection and trust, but he was damned if he was going to let it go that way without a fight, without a determined attempt to mend matters. Hell, compared to rebuilding the Commonwealth, how hard could it be?

On the other hand, rebuilding the Commonwealth might be what Beka referred to as a cakewalk compared to undoing the damage he’d done.

He hoped he was wrong about that.

  


* * *

"Nothing’s wrong with me, Beka." Harper wished ardently that Beka would call it a day and go to bed. She’d arrived in his workshop an hour ago, leaving Tyr on the command deck, and had hovered, asking questions that were apparently meant to be delicate.

Fortunately, he knew Beka. 

She blinked at him. "Did I say there was?"

He gave her a look. "Beka."

She sighed and leaned on his worktable. "Okay, fine, have it your way. But if you think I haven’t noticed that you’re brooding--"

"I don’t brood, that’s Dylan’s department." He tightened a connection on his current project.

"Oh, he’s brooding, too, and don’t think we all haven’t noticed that wherever Dylan is, you are not." She eyed him. "Do I have to kill him?"

He scowled at her. "Beka."

"And you’re too damn quiet lately, Harper. You are _never_ quiet." 

The only reason he didn’t want to punch her was that he knew she was only worried about him. He really, really hated that, but hell if he wouldn’t have felt the same about anyone hurting her. "I’m just tired lately, that’s all."

Beka’s eyes narrowed. "Not sleeping well?"

He grimaced. "I guess. Quit worrying, I’m fine."

"Would you tell me if you weren’t?" She didn’t sound altogether happy about it.

Probably not, he thought, but said, "Of course." He was all right, really, maybe not fine. He still couldn’t decide how to feel, how to act, beyond feeling like he’d gotten a hard right to the base of his belly. Until he had that sussed, he wasn’t going to be able to be around Dylan. Not that it appeared to be a problem for Dylan. Well, maybe. Dylan was, after all, brooding.

That was good. He shouldn’t be the only one, and even if it was small mean pleasure, he was distantly pleased by that.

Which admission made him feel guilty. "Go away, Beka. I’m going to bed soon and I can’t finish up with you fishing at me." 

She sighed, rolled her eyes. "If you want to talk, Seamus, you know where I am."

He did manage a genuine smile then. "Thanks."

She walked around the table, startled him with a brief hug, and then went out, leaving him in relative peace.

The worst thing was that he missed Dylan badly. Hated what Dylan had done. Hated that bitch Elsbett. Hated himself for caring. And still, after all that, missed Dylan badly.

At least he could work in peace now. And until he had finished sorting out his disordered mind, that would have to do.

  


* * *

Harper had done an extraordinarily good job, these last few days, of hiding from him, Dylan reflected. And now that he was making a concerted effort to find Harper, he was realizing afresh just how large Andromeda was.

His headache had gotten worse, but he was reluctant to call it a night. He’d already waited far too long to go after Harper. He would be lucky if he could somehow manage to repair at least their friendship, and the longer he looked, the worse he felt about it.

Sometime in the deeps of ship’s night, he went to Harper’s workshop, having visited more access tubes in the last few hours than he’d visited in the last four years. Not counting the 303-year gap spent in the black hole. 

Harper, wonder of wonders, was there, reading a goddamn technical manual. He glanced up at Dylan, then back at the manual. 

Oh, this was hard. He hadn’t come up with any brilliant conclusions on how to heal the pain he’d caused, but he was never going to figure it out if he didn’t just ask Harper. It might be easier to think if this gods’ cursed headache would lift. "Harper, we need to talk."

"About what?" Harper’s tone was... even. Not angry or hurt. Not the usual cheerful insolence. Just... even.

His throat ached suddenly. "About," he began and his head chose that moment to throb painfully. He lost track of what he was saying, fumbled for the words. "I miss you," he blurted, "I’m sorry, I didn’t understand, I didn’t want to let myself understand. I think I do, but I need your help, Harper--" He swayed a little, closed his eyes briefly. "Sorry, I’ve got a monster headache." Apologetically.

Harper rose, frowning. "Are you all right?"

He rubbed his forehead. "Just this damn headache, I can’t shake it." Tried on a wan smile, hoping to reassure. "Maybe I’ve been thinking too hard, but this is too important to me. You’re too important to me." Everything he’d carefully rehearsed was gone, nothing was coming out right, and Harper was still frowning. "I loved Sara, too, but we didn’t--we weren’t exclusive, we were apart for long periods, and I--I should have thought, but I didn’t, and then I made excuses, but I want to make things right." Another blinding jolt of pain, and the light hurt his eyes. He rubbed them.

Harper’s frown had only deepened. "Dylan, you look like hell."

"I feel terrible," he admitted, and it was true, aside from the headache. All he could was hope that Harper would think about what he’d said, if it made any sense at all. "I miss you," he said again, "That’s all I came to say."

Which wasn’t, strictly speaking, true, but it was close enough.

Harper was suddenly in front of him. "Dylan, you’re sick." Worriedly.

"Just a headache," he said faintly, except that the muscle aches and bruises seemed to have magnified tenfold, and it hurt to stand. "I’m fine."

Abruptly, Harper shrank, seemed to be moving rapidly away from him, smaller and smaller, and the movement made him dizzy. "How did you do that?" he asked, puzzled, and then everything went grey, dark grey, and he was surrounded by ice and fire....

The world came back an unknowable time later, and he was freezing, still surrounded by ice, but he was on med-deck, flat on his back, teeth chattering.

Beka’s voice hurt his ears. "Harper, get _out_ of here!"

Oh. He was sick. That explained the headache, at least, and he was much in sympathy with Beka’s order to Harper.

He couldn’t voice that sympathy, or even back up the order with his own, but Trance leaned over him, as if sensing his worry. "It’s all right, we won’t let him in." Softly. "Not until we’re sure what it is."

Her fingers were cool on his forehead. Odd, that felt wonderful, even if the cooling bed was acutely painful. He couldn’t seem to think, couldn’t seem to reason out why that should be the case, but it hardly mattered. 

Someone behind Trance spoke, but the light hurt his eyes, he couldn’t keep them open. Blessedly, they dimmed slightly, angry orange on the inside of his eyelids going to a gentler shade. An injector spray hissed at his throat. 

"It’s just something for the fever, Dylan," Trance told him clearly. "And to help you rest comfortably."

He fought the tremors, felt a flash of terror. Harper was already exposed, he thought blurrily and opened his eyes. "Trance--check him." 

"We will," she soothed. "Dylan, just let go, it’s all right."

The drug was taking effect, he didn’t have a lot of choice, the world faded to grey again.

  


* * *

Beka had solved the problem by ordering Tyr to bodily haul him away when they’d put Dylan in the isolation unit. Harper didn’t know if he could forgive her for that, but at least they’d let him stand outside.

He wasn’t sure that was a kindness when the seizures started, but Trance and Rommie were in there, and Rommie had the medical knowledge of the entire Commonwealth and Trance had, well, whatever Trance had. A riddle inside an enigma wrapped up in the middle with a tail, who knew with Trance.

He snarled wordlessly at Beka when she put her hand on his shoulder, 

"Harper," she snapped. "Come on, you have to get checked out."

"I’m fine," he snapped back. "See? No fever, no headache." Just fear. He was used to fear, it was an old companion, but this was fear for someone else and that was always worse.

Her expression gentled. "Seamus, come on. Dylan wants this."

Oh. Well. In that case. If it would ease Dylan’s mind in the middle of this, what the fuck. He let himself be led, submitted to blood tests and scans and--

Rommie came out of the isolation unit and looked at him with interest. "You’ve already had this, Harper, you have antibodies."

He blinked. "I do?" Then, as the news penetrated his thick head. "I do. Great. Good. Now get out of my way."

"Not so fast," Beka said hastily. "Rommie, what is it?"

"I haven’t matched it to anything in my database yet." Matter of fact tone. "I think it might be useful to check all of you for antibodies. It’s possible that Dylan is having an atypical reaction. 300 years of genetic drift--humans may have developed some sort of tolerance for it that Dylan lacks."

Harper scowled at Beka. "So if I’ve got antibodies, I’m okay, right? I can go in there?"

"I wouldn’t recommend it at the moment." Rommie gave him a long, speculative look. "I think you’ll only find it distressing, Harper, and there’s very little you can do."

He slid down from the examining table. "Hell with that."

"Harper," Beka said warningly, "I don’t want to throw you in the brig."

He whirled on her. "You really wanna try?" Dangerously.

"Viruses mutate," Rommie said evenly. "They adapt themselves to the genetic material of the host. They shift, Harper. Depending on what kind of shift they’ve made, you could still be at risk."

He hated that. Really, really hated that. "Nobody else is sick."

"Not yet." 

The three of them looked at each other.

Harper swallowed hard. "He’s going to be okay, right?" A little desperately. He had to be okay, this was Dylan, Mr. Three Hundred Years in a Black Hole, Mr. Indestructible.

"I think so, yes." Rommie, obviously, had some doubts. "However, it depends on how quickly the anti-virals take effect."

"What about Trance?" Beka asked. "Is she at risk?"

Rommie’s expression became-- if she were human, he’d have called it puzzled. "No." And that was all.

He wanted badly to hit something. Or someone. If Tyr so much as laid a hand on him again, it was, he thought, even odds who would win this time. Deep breath in through his nose. "Okay. Okay. But the minute I can go in there, Rommie, I’m going in."

She nodded at him. "Understood."

Beka let out a breath. "How sick is he, Rommie?"

Rommie shifted to return to the isolation unit. "According to his medical records, he’s never been this ill before. His body temperature continues to spike, hence the seizures, and at the moment we can only provide medical support. With luck, the anti-virals will begin to take effect very soon."

Harper wanted to throw up. "I’ve got work to do," he said roughly, before he completely lost it, and pushed his way past Beka for the door. If he could keep busy enough, maybe he could keep from thinking about this.

Yeah, and Tyr was going to become a helluva nice guy overnight.

  


* * *

Fever dreams and pain like he’d never known, and icy chill, white hot agony, and then suddenly, Dylan was just ordinarily miserable, mostly because of the tubes running into and out of his body.

He turned his head, worked at opening his eyes, which were slightly crusted, and managed to squint. Med-deck. Isolation, from the looks of it, which relieved him somewhat. They’d had good sense, then. Except that Harper was lying on a gurney pushed up against the wall, light blanket pulled mostly over his head, only a tuft of hair showing. He swallowed drily around the tube, scared to his bones, but Harper shifted suddenly, sat up and peered owlishly at him for a moment before shouting, "Trance!"

The lights came up, and he had to close his eyes again. Light still hurt. Not a good sign, he didn’t think, but it could just be that he wasn’t used to it.

Harper was suddenly beside him. "Hey, hang on, she’s on her way."

If Trance knew Harper was here and Harper wasn’t sick--that was a good sign to outweigh the bad. He lay still, swallowed again. He was dying of thirst, he thought distantly, even though he knew that wasn’t the case.

Trance was there, between one breath and another, and getting the tube out of his throat, which naturally necessitated pulling it out of his nose, and that was far from pleasant. He coughed, gagged a little, never mind Trance was careful and gentle, but then it was gone, and Harper was holding a bottle of cold water up, guiding the straw to his lips.

He drank thirstily, gratefully, sagged back on the pillow exhausted from that small effort. "Anybody else get sick?" Hoarsely.

Trance beamed at him. He supposed that meant not, and she confirmed it. "Nobody but you, Dylan."

Another Good thing. He let his eyes drift closed briefly. "Good." Faintly.

Harper looked tired. Trance looked tired. He wondered how long he’d been adrift and asked them.

Trance touched his cheek. "Nearly eight days, Dylan." Solemn now. "You were very ill."

Eight days. It rocked him. He’d never in his entire life been as sick as this--for which he was distantly grateful. "What was it?"

Harper shifted, frowned, looked at Trance. "Well," she said, "It seems to have been a relatively common childhood illness, Dylan, but with genetic drift on the part of humanity _and_ the virus, you didn’t have any defenses for it."

Harper scowled. "It looked at you and saw a free lunch."

Part of him was mortally embarrassed at being felled by a typical childhood virus, and the rest of him wanted to laugh. "Don’t anthromorphize, Harper. I doubt it was personal."

"Who knows. Viruses could be sentient." Harper was still scowling, but not at him, at the wall.

"It was most prevalent among the Nietzschean population," Trance said helpfully. "But it’s spread outward since then."

He winced at that. "I didn’t think they caught so much as a cold."

Trance shrugged. "So they tell us."

Harper’s expression had gone smooth. It made his throat hurt. "Ah." 

She patted his arm. "You’re past the worst now, Dylan. Now it’s all recuperation time." Smiled brilliantly at him. "We were worried."

He couldn’t help it, he looked at Harper again, but Harper was looking at him again, frowning. "And you’re going to listen to Trance and Rommie if we have to get Tyr to sit on you," Harper growled.

Why in the world should a ridiculous threat like that make him feel better? He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to examine why, but it did. "More water?" he asked hopefully.

Trance dimpled. "Let me get the rest of these tubes out and you can have all the water you like."

Ah, yes, he was noticing more and more the longer he was awake. Catheters, as Harper might say, sucked, whatever their variety. Modern technology and medicine, and there was only so much you could do to keep a human body working. 

He was both startled and comforted when Harper’s fingers closed around his while Trance took care of disconnecting him. 

"Sucks," Harper said briefly, not quite looking at him.

He almost grinned, but he was too tired. "Yeah." 

"You scared the hell out of me." Harper did meet his gaze then. Sober expression. "You were burning up."

"I was an idiot," he said wearily. "I should have recognized that I was sick. I should have come here instead of exposing you."

Harper shrugged. "Turns out, I was okay. Already had it. Besides, if you’d gone down someplace alone, Trance says you would have died."

That rocked him again. He let his own fingers tighten over Harper’s. "A kid’s disease."

Harper’s mouth quirked. "No immunity, Superman."

Another one of Harper’s arcane references. He supposed that was the difference between growing up on Earth and growing up on Tarn-Vedra. But it didn’t matter. Harper held the bottle of water for him again, he drank gratefully. "Sorry," he said blurrily. "Going down again."

"Yeah, but this time you’re just tired." Harper’s thumb stroked his knuckles. "Just sleep, Dylan."

Like he had any choice.

  


* * *

Harper stood by the bed, watching Dylan sleep. Dylan looked... well, if it wasn’t too stupid to say it, Dylan looked fragile. Shadowy bruises under his chin from the Attack of the Lymph Nodes, purplish smudges under his eyes and eight days of fever had burnt away flesh, that was the only way to see it. Dylan was one helluva big guy, and carried a lot of weight on his frame without too much spare, but now he looked scarily thin.

"He’s gonna be okay, right?" It was maybe the hundredth time he’d asked Trance the same question.

She gave him a kind smile. "No permanent damage, Harper."

He nodded, still looking down at Dylan, still rubbing Dylan’s knuckles. Didn’t seem to bother Dylan, who had gone under with startling speed. "Yeah, okay. Good."

"Why don’t you get some sleep, too." She patted his shoulder.

He really didn’t want to let go of Dylan’s hand, but it made good sense. "Yeah." Almost reluctantly. On the other hand, maybe he could sleep without bad dreams now, knowing that the fever had finally let go of Dylan, knowing that Dylan was back in the universe again. "Yeah, okay. That’s a good idea."

Trance hugged him suddenly. "I’ll take good care of him."

He swallowed around a lump in his throat. Unlike Beka, Trance didn’t ask questions, didn’t give him meaningful looks, but Trance wasn’t stupid. Trance knew how he felt, never mind they’d never so much as talked about it. "Thanks, Your Purpleness." Trying for lightness.

She poked him in the ribs playfully. "Sleep."

Yeah. Maybe he could, now. He slowly disentangled his fingers from Dylan’s, tucked Dylan’s hand beneath the thin blanket. "Okay, but wake me up when he wakes up again."

"Think I’ll need to?" Brief grin. "I will."

Somehow, the gurney seemed more comfortable now. He settled himself so that he could open his eyes and see Dylan, and then, almost as suddenly as Dylan, he was asleep.

  


* * *

It was a few more days before Dylan was awake more than very short periods of time. The third day, he did better, although even eating tired him badly enough that his hands shook visibly. 

Watching that made Harper’s chest ache. Sitting on the edge of Dylan’s bed, he fought the urge to just take the goddamn spoon and feed the soup to Dylan. "Drink it," he advised instead.

Dylan gave him an owlish look. "Good point." Grudgingly, and he set the spoon aside, picked up the bowl and did.

Putting his hand on Dylan’s leg, he stroked it through the blanket. "Much better, huh? And you get the food faster that way."

Dylan put the bowl down again. "It’s going to be hard to do once I graduate back to solids." Faint smile and Dylan let his head fall back on the pillow. 

Reaching, Harper took the bowl and slid down, took it to the disposal chute. Returned to the bed and climbed back on. Dylan had shoved the table surface aside, smiled at him blearily. "Thanks."

He reached for Dylan’s hand, rubbed his thumb on Dylan’s palm. "Think you can avoid getting that sick again? I’d hate to have all my hair turn white prematurely."

Dylan’s fingers curled around his, but he could still feel fractional tremors. Trance had told him that the virus was a mutant form of an old Terran virus, that a few hundred years ago, the virus would go dormant once the infection had passed, that it would sleep in the victim’s nervous system to erupt in a different form later. That wouldn’t happen to Dylan, thank modern medicine and Rommie, the anti-virals had totally disrupted the nasty little bastard’s genetic code. However, it had done a job on inflaming nerve endings, according to Rommie, and Dylan still hurt a lot, even though Dylan, being High Guard and well trained, would probably rather set himself on fire than admit it.

Not to mention muscles sore still from febrile seizures. 

"I’m supposed to be the one who broods," Dylan said softly.

"Yeah, well, I earned my brooding points." He looked at Dylan directly. "I’m gonna say this now and get us past it. It’s got nothing to do with how sick you’ve been, so don’t give me any of that, either."

Dylan blinked. "Okay." Cautiously.

"I think--I think I got what you were trying to tell me when you decided to scare the hell out of me and pass out. I don’t know how, yet, but I think we can get past it." Oh, shit, Dylan looked away, and when he looked back, his eyes were too bright. Don’t, he thought, a little panicked. "I just have to figure out how."

Dylan took in a ragged breath, let it out. "Thank you." Shaky voice.

He rubbed Dylan’s knuckles. "Don’t thank me, it’s probably not the best deal you’ll get in your life." Trying to lighten things a little.

He wasn’t sure it worked, but Dylan played along. "You don’t think so?"

"Hard to say." He smiled at Dylan, feeling relief and exhilaration in equal measures. "You may end up regretting it."

Dylan looked away again, swallowed audibly. "I think," huskily, "I think I need to sleep again."

That scared him a little. "Dylan?" He let go of Dylan’s hand, leaned in and gathered him up. "Hey, Dylan." Feeling a little shaky himself.

Dylan’s arms went around him. "I’m okay, just... I get so damn tired."

His own eyes burned. "Makes sense to me." He rubbed the back of Dylan’s neck. "Ya know, if we set the bed back to flat, and you roll over, I can rub your back."

Dylan’s arms tightened. "That would be great." Voice a little wobbly.

He sighed, turned his head and kissed Dylan’s temple. "Yeah, I’ll bet." Not just doomed, but soft in the head. And maybe the heart. 

But for the first time, he didn’t really regret it.

He’d been ready to accept Dylan’s apology and find a way past it the moment he’d looked up to find Dylan in the door to his workshop. He just had to make sure Dylan really knew it wasn’t because Dylan had nearly died.

The Harper didn’t do Pity Fucks. And that thought made him smile, kiss Dylan’s temple again. "Okay. Bed, roll over, and I’m gonna see if Trance has any of her magic muscle stuff."

Dylan let go of him, leaned back again. Eyes a little red, but not bad. "Even better."

  


* * *

Harper was almost embarrassingly solicitous of him, Dylan thought. Not that he wasn’t grateful, not that he wasn’t warmed by it, but it told him more than he really wanted to know about how sick he’d been.

Arguing with Trance about letting him out of medical care had the same effect. But finally, with Rommie’s proviso that she was going to be monitoring his life signs, Trance agreed.

Getting to his quarters proved to be far more arduous than he’d expected. He’d managed to choose a time when neither Beka nor Harper was hovering, and before he’d gotten halfway there, he had to rest. Very distressing.

By the time he made it, he was done in completely, he simply collapsed face down on his bed. Semi-stupor, not quite sleep, but he eventually managed to pull a blanket over himself and bury his face in a pillow. Then he sank under, deep and dreamless, until a hand touched his cheek.

"I oughta beat the shit out of you while I still can," Harper growled at him.

He was still too tired to argue. "Please don’t." Meekly.

Harper only growled again, this time wordlessly. "Lift your ass, I’m going to pull the blankets out from under you."

He really didn’t want to move. Every spot in his body seemed to ache. "Do I have to? I’m fine. I’m comfortable."

Harper gave him a look.

He sighed and rolled on his side, tucked up and struggled to get under the bedclothes. Managed it with a little help and sank back into the pillows. Harper, energetic bastard that he was, made him shift again so the pillows could be piled. The entire time Harper pummeled pillows, he muttered. Inaudibly.

He wearily supposed that Harper was cursing him. At the moment, he wasn’t sure he blamed Harper. "Sorry. I thought I’d rest better here."

Harper let him lie back again. "I guess I can understand that." Grudgingly.

He sighed. Whatever Harper had done, the bed was more comfortable. "That feels better."

"Good." Another scowl. "You look terrible."

"I feel--" He paused. "Well, not terrible, but I sure as hell have felt better."

Harper’s mouth twitched. "No kidding. Go back to sleep, I’ll be here."

"Right here?" He hated the plaintive, needy tone of his voice.

"Right here," Harper told him softly. "For real."

He ought to be ashamed of himself. It was practically emotional blackmail. But he reached for Harper’s hand and Harper let him and that let him close his eyes again and sink under.

  


* * *

Beka came to see Dylan the next ship’s day. "You’re lucky Harper got to you first," she told him sternly. "You don’t do this again."

He was lying on his bed, reading, even though it made the lingering headache a little worse. "Trust me," he said drily.

She sat down in the chair that had apparently taken up near permanent residence near his bed. "We’re going to be at Kirin in about eighteen hours."

Kirin. He’d forgotten about Kirin. Of course he’d forgotten about Kirin, he was lucky his brain worked well enough that he remembered his own name. "God."

She smiled wryly. "Of course, you _know_ how much I love negotiating, not to mention attending diplomatic functions."

He rubbed his eyes. "I wonder if I can persuade Trance to prescribe stimulants."

"You aren’t going anywhere." Beka stretched out her legs, examined her boots intently. "That’s already been decided."

"Since when is this a democracy?"

She looked up, grinned. "Since you took on a salvage crew as your partners in, er, crime. Forget about it, Dylan. You aren’t leaving the ship. Right now, your immune system is still recovering, and we voted. Rommie’s vote carried it."

He’d have argued, but he felt far too... inadequate to the task of doing anything other than staying awake for more than fifteen minutes at a time. "You’ll do fine," he sighed. "I trust you. Who are you taking?"

"Tyr. And Harper. We need some supplies." She grinned at him again. "Trance stays here in charge of you."

"Rommie?" 

"She’ll be linked with us and no doubt giving me advice constantly." Beka rolled her eyes. "We have a plan, Dylan."

He rubbed his eyes again. "Dammit. No, I do trust you, I do. It’s just...."

"It’s just that you’re a control freak and Supercaptain." She said it cheerfully. "I can always have Rommie link you in."

He considered it. It seemed counterproductive, however, given that he did, mostly, trust Beka. Mostly. He still hadn’t forgotten her comment to the Persieds about getting their chins screwed on straight. 

Still, that had worked. 

"If you don’t get some rest, I’m going to send Harper in to sit on you." She was regarding him narrowly. "You still look terrible."

"Like that would be a hardship," he muttered, and then was appalled at himself. Clearly, the illness had affected his judgement as well as his memory. "That’s all I’m doing, Beka. Resting."

She reached down for the datapad, examined the cartridge. "Right. Grotskevesky’s History of Strategic Philosophy? Get real, Dylan, it makes my head hurt just to read the title."

"Well, it was all I could find." He shrugged. "I wasn’t feeling up to strolling through the ship in search of more interesting material."

"I’m definitely sending Harper in here," she said drily. "With all his ill-gotten booty from various drifts and stations. He’s got some highly entertaining books."

He frowned. "What does _that_ mean, or do I dare ask?"

She laughed. "Get your mind out of the gutter, Dylan, I mean really interesting. Harper has an interesting brain, even though he says it’s empty."

He smiled at that. "He’s a goddamn genius. I’ve told him that before on more than one occasion."

"Good." Direct look. "He can be a pain in the ass sometimes--"

"But he’s _our_ pain in the ass? Yeah, I agree." He let himself sink back against the pillows. "Don’t let Rommie bully you into wearing something that makes you feel uncomfortable."

"Have you ever known that to happen?" Impish look and she rose. "Rest, Dylan, or I’ll set Trance on you."

"I’m quaking in my boots." But he smiled anyway. Trance had mysterious depths, that he knew, but it was easy to forget that she was anything but the gentle Trance she showed most of the time.

  


* * *

They arrived at Kirin without incident, and Dylan found he was brooding about his inability to attend the negotiations. He didn’t particularly mind missing the evening’s planned festivities, except that Harper was going to look sensational in his suit. Again.

When he brooded, he found the view from the Observation Deck to be soothing, so that’s precisely where Harper and Trance found him shortly before his diplomats left the ship.

He’d been right. Harper looked sensational in his suit.

Trance leaned against the door, her expression worried. Harper--Harper eyed him, came over to sit down beside him. "You going to do this all night?"

"Probably not." He managed a wan smile. "I’ve been pretty lucky in my life, I’ve managed to avoid feeling like this for most of it. Oh, I’ve had injuries, but...." He shrugged, wondering if Harper understood.

"Yeah, and you’re letting Beka handle things, and Tyr, Mr. Self-Interest, will be at her right hand, watching for his chance, and then, of course, there’s me." 

He couldn’t help smiling at that. He suspected that’s precisely what Harper had intended. "Are you trying to make me feel worse?"

"I’m a realist." Harper nudged him companionably. "Me, I’m going to have fun. Expensive drinks, the chance to pick up new gossip and stories. And the Kirin are waaaaay interesting. Last time--hell, the last time I wore this suit, it was just a disaster. I’m going to take advantage of this."

In spite of the fact that he knew very well that he should be showing disapproval, Dylan found he was laughing. "Harper," he said, trying for severity.

Trance was giggling.

Harper got up and wheeled to face him, tugged at his lapels. "I’m tellin’ ya, I can make it big with this diplomatic stuff. Hah, gossip columnist, roving journalist, investigative reporter Shameless Harper."

"More like Shameful," Dylan told him tartly, and could have bitten his tongue out the moment the words left his mouth. Dammit, Harper was trying to make him laugh, it was ingrained military habit, he supposed--

Harper froze in place, and something happened behind his eyes, something that made Dylan’s gut knot. Something that made Harper go chalk pale. Two steps backward out of the observation deck and Harper was gone.

Trance stared after him, eyes wide and alarmed. "Go after him," she said sharply, but she said it to Dylan’s back.

He was already out the door. 

He wasn’t sure what he’d seen in Harper’s eyes, but he never wanted to see it again in this lifetime. Harper had already vanished. "Rommie, locate Harper," he ordered, heart thumping too hard. He was still woefully out of shape, still not quite up to par, he _had_ to cheat this time, turned to look at the small screen on the wall outside the observation deck. Rommie popped up the schematic, he memorized it, relieved that Harper hadn’t gone far, despite his speed in vanishing, and headed for the nearest hatch to the access tube network.

Out of shape and recuperating, he still managed to catch up with Harper, tackled him and nearly got punched for his efforts. 

"Harper, dammit." He grappled, got both arms and one leg around Harper, rolled so that they were more or less spooned on the hard surface, so his weight wasn’t on Harper. "Harper, talk to me." His heart was pounding hard, and not merely from the exertion. He was, he admitted, badly frightened, Harper’s eyes had been empty as he’d swung his fist. "Harper, talk to me, talk to me." Voice pitched low.

Harper’s struggles abruptly stopped; he could feel Harper’s heartbeat, too fast against his palm, felt Harper take in a shuddering breath. "Fuck you." Thinly.

His throat hurt. "Harper, what the hell did I say? Don’t do this, don’t make me crawl into a minefield when I don’t have a fucking clue what I said."

Another shudder. Another ragged breath, and then Harper went limp on him. "I can’t!"

Can’t what, he wondered and nuzzled Harper’s hair. "Tell me, Harper. I can’t make it right if I don’t know what it was."

"I can’t." A whisper this time.

He considered that, nuzzled again. "Okay, okay, that’s fine. You don’t have to, just help me here. How do I make it right?"

Harper was silent for a long time, so long that Dylan’s stomach knotted up again. Then, as suddenly as things had all gone bad, Harper shivered, said in a normal tone of voice, "Sorry, just the bi-annual Harper freakout."

"Don’t," he said and rubbed Harper’s chest slowly. "Don’t do that, Harper."

"Let go of me."

"The hell I will."

"I’m okay."

"I’m not." He did, however, loosen his grip. 

Harper sighed. "Sorry."

"Yeah, well I’m sorry, too. If you can’t tell me what it was--and that’s okay, Harper, it really is--I need to know how to mend it."

"You can’t." Very small voice. "It’s just--stupid, that’s all. Long time ago shit. It just-I just sort of flashed on it, that’s all. Freaked out."

His throat hurt worse. "Oh, Harper." Softly and he nuzzled again. "I’m sorry."

"Me, too." Still very subdued.

He cautiously loosened his hold, rubbed Harper’s hip through the silky fabric of the suit. They lay there in silence for a few moments, and then Harper shifted to lie on his back. Looked at Dylan and put his fingertips on Dylan’s cheekbone. "Did I hit you?"

"You missed." Dylan felt his mouth twitch. "I ducked."

Not quite a grin. "Good."

He put a hand lightly on Harper’s stomach, rubbed lightly through the thin fabric of the dress shirt. "I think so," he agreed. Harper’s eyes were reddened. He risked leaning closer and kissing Harper’s eyelids, and Harper didn’t flinch away. "You okay now?"

Brief hesitation, honesty struggling with bravado. "Mostly," Harper finally muttered.

"Because I never want to see that look in your eyes again." He said it bluntly. "We have to come up with some sort of secret high sign, so you can keep me from putting it there."

Harper blinked hard, looked away. "You aren’t mad, huh?"

He took in a breath. What would work? What would reach Harper? "I’m not mad," he said quietly and rubbed a fingertip over Harper’s cheekbone.

Harper took in a shaky breath of his own. "Jeez, I feel stupid."

"Think how I feel," he said drily. "There you are trying to cheer me up, and not only do I behave like a stuffed shirt, but I manage to upset you."

"Not your fault." Blinking hard. "I’m just fucked up."

He propped his head on his hand. "Maybe we both are." Regretfully. "Harper, I don’t know what the hell I said, but I’m sorrier than I can tell you that I said it."

Harper shifted again, burrowed into him, suit and all. "It doesn’t matter. It’s not your fault." 

It could be, he thought and sighed. Not merely for saying something hurtful, but for his failure more than three hundred years ago.

"We better get out of here," Harper said, his voice muffled in Dylan’s throat. "Beka’s going to pitch a fit. This suit is probably ruined."

"No, it will be fine." He rubbed Harper’s back, let go of him so they could both sit up. He smiled faintly, tugged Harper’s tie back around. "I know you hate the damn thing, but you do look pretty damn good."

Harper rolled his eyes. "Wrinkles and all."

He smoothed one out. "They’ll come out. It’s that kind of fabric."

Harper gave him a long look. "Thanks for not getting pissed off."

"Thanks for only trying to punch me once," he said lightly and cupped Harper’s cheek briefly. "If you want to talk later-- are you sure you’ll be okay?"

"Yeah." Brief shrug. "I’ll even be on my best behavior."

"I never doubted it." He was rewarded by a crooked grin.

Beka was standing with Trance outside the observation deck when they returned, and she looked impatient. Trance smiled sweetly, and Dylan guessed she’d put Beka off with some typically Trance-ish explanation that made no sense whatsoever to anyone but Trance. 

He planned to ask Trance later why she had been so emphatic about sending him after Harper. 

Not that he expected to get a good explanation, but it was worth the effort.

Harper glanced at him, flushed a little. "Trance, make sure he rests."

"I will." She smiled sunnily at Dylan. 

He gave her a long look back. "I will," he told Harper and smiled. They’d gotten past some of the distance, no matter how it had happened, he had to remember that. "Don’t step on anybody’s feet, and don’t get stepped on."

Beka frowned at him. "Is there some problem?"

He should have realized that Beka’s antennae would be quivering even if Trance had offered excuses. "You look terrific, too," he told her honestly. "And no, should there be?" Long look from Beka, a grateful one from Harper. "Get out of here before I change my mind and insist on going."

"Rommie," Harper said to the ceiling. "Did you hear that?"

"It won’t happen," Rommie’s voice said.

"Tyrants," Dylan muttered.

And Harper’s eyes changed again, lit up from within. He grinned at Dylan, took Beka’s arm. "Where’s Mr. Self Interest?"

"He’s meeting us at the docking hatch." Beka shook off whatever doubts she had. "Wish us luck."

"Luck," Dylan told her, "And for god’s sake, please don’t insult anyone. Unless it works."

Wicked grin from Beka, Harper snickered and off they went down the corridor.

He waited until they’d rounded the corner, turned to Trance. "You," he said and pointed a finger.

She looked at him, wide-eyed and innocent. "Me?" Almost a squeak.

"Why was it so important for me to go after him?"

Trance edged away slightly. "Oh, it doesn’t matter, Dylan, you went after him anyway."

He stalked toward her. "Trance, I _need_ to know."

She stopped. Looked around as if expecting the walls to give her advice. "Um. I was just worried about him."

"Trance." Warningly.

She blinked. "He was upset." Subdued.

"Did you--" He bit his lip. Did he want to know? "Is he all right?"

Another sudden smile. "Oh, yes, Dylan. He is now. I’m sure of it."

Harper had been right. An enigma in a riddle with a tail wrapped up in the middle. He was suddenly very tired. "I’m going to my quarters."

"Good idea. You look tired." Sympathetically.

He was _not_ going to snap at her. He was going to get something to eat and go to sleep before the nascent headache in the back of his head turned into a real headache again.

He was going to be very glad when he’d recovered completely.

As it happened, he didn’t finish eating, he fell asleep with a book on his chest and a plate on the table next to his bed. 

He surfaced once to find that it was late, briefly considering waking all the way to check on how things were going, but sank like a stone instead.

He did wake when someone sat down on the edge of the bed.

Harper. He smiled blurrily. "How did it go?"

"It went great. Beka was fantastic." Harper’s fingers curled around his. "I’m going to take a shower. You need anything?"

He stretched, realized he was still wearing boots and clothes. "More comfortable nightwear," he grumbled and pushed himself up. "I hate being this tired."

"Get over it," Harper told him cheerfully and leaned in to kiss him briefly.

Not briefly enough. He caught the scent of perfume and sex and leaned back to stare at Harper, who was apparently oblivious.

Another Harper smile and Harper got up, shedding clothes on his way to the shower. Dylan leaned back against the headboard of the bed, stunned to stupidity by the first virulent sexual jealousy he’d ever felt in his entire life.

When the water went on, he rolled out of bed, stalked after Harper. Jerked the shower stall door open and glared.

Harper gave him a startled look. "What?"

"What the _hell_ ," he began, and then closed his mouth so suddenly that he nearly bit his tongue.

Harper blinked at him, narrowed his eyes slightly. "Kissing you was a dumb idea, I guess." He turned the water off. "Didn’t think of that." Wryly.

"Forget I asked." He couldn’t decide if he was furious or hurt or just plain thunderstruck. Or all of the above. Turning, he stalked back out, focused on getting out of his boots, then his clothes.

Harper came back with a towel around his waist. "I was going to tell you after my shower." Calmly. "I had to get us back to a good starting point."

He stared at Harper. "You what?"

"We have to start again from even ground," Harper said reasonably. "Or it won’t work at all."

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. There was a sort of zany, Trance-cum Harper logic to it. Finally, he rubbed his eyes. "I must be losing my mind, that actually made sense."

Harper grinned at him. "You see?"

He eyed Harper. "Sort of. At least I know how you felt." Drily.

Harper’s eyes narrowed. "So telling you it was meaningless isn’t going to help, is it?"

Ouch. He took in a deep breath. "Next time, just punch me, okay? Go take your shower. You smell like very expensive perfume." He looked up, saw sorrow behind Harper’s calm. "I’m still a little shaky," he admitted. "From being sick."

"Yeah." Harper gave him a long look. "It really was meaningless, Dylan. Things have to be even, that’s all."

He studied Harper, weighed what he saw behind Harper’s gaze and nodded. The logic might be skewed, but the instinct was on target. "Yeah. Go shower, Harper, we’ll talk later."

Harper nodded, turned back toward the bathroom again. Stopped at the door and looked back. "Bannon used to call me Shame." Soft voice.

It hit Dylan hard, nonetheless. He sat there, listening to the sound of the shower, thinking of a fourteen year old boy whose own name had been used against him, conscious of useless, killing rage. If Bannon wasn’t already dead, he thought wearily and put his hands over his eyes. 

Shameless Harper indeed; whistling in the dark, Harper was, and despite what that did to his gut, he could appreciate that. It got him past the ache in his chest and belly and let him lie back down.

They were on even ground again, at least. Whatever that meant.

Suddenly, it struck him as mildly hilarious, that Harper had calculated what he needed to make things right and gone and done it. Maybe things were going to be all right after all, even if the depth of his jealousy astonished him.

He hoped.

  


* * *

Cursing his big mouth, Harper stayed in the shower a long time. What the _hell_ had he been thinking, telling Dylan that? And his timing, what the hell was wrong with his timing?

It had made sense at the time; the woman at the reception had been attractive--hell, she’d been hot--and clearly uninterested in anything more than his body, and that was both flattering and arousing and an entirely practical chance, as he had seen it, to wipe the slate clean. Of course, several of the deceptively lethal drinks served at the reception had probably contributed to that, and freaking out earlier had only pushed him in that direction.

He should have showered before coming to Dylan’s quarters, that was all. Or been smart enough to stay across the room when Dylan woke. And been smart enough to keep his mouth shut about Bannon. He did _not_ want Dylan looking at him with pity, hell if that’s what he wanted from Dylan. 

On the other hand, though, it was done, too late to call back, and Dylan hadn’t thrown him out or told him to fuck off. Dylan had come after him when he’d freaked out, hadn’t treated him like he was damaged, hadn’t insisted on knowing.

Maybe that’s why he’d told him. 

The third time he came around to that conclusion, he felt better, turned off the shower and got out. Towel around his waist, he went back out to find Dylan dozing, but Dylan’s eyes opened almost immediately, Dylan moved over and lifted the bedclothes for him to get in.

It made his knees wobble a bit, but he got in, wrapped himself around Dylan. Dylan returned the favor, still half-asleep and somehow, somehow that seemed more of a gift than anything else Dylan had ever done.

"Do it again, and I’ll wring your neck." Dylan’s voice was regretful. "I’m discovering a side of myself I’m not happy about."

He rubbed his cheek against Dylan’s shoulder. "Well, then." Walking carefully, more carefully than he’d ever done in his life.

"Yeah, I know." Dylan sighed. "Not to worry, I’ve learned my lesson."

He couldn’t help smiling. "That’s not exactly why--"

"I know. I know." Dylan’s hand moved to the small of Harper’s back, rubbed small circles. "It scares the hell out of me that it makes sense."

There was something comforting about that. "My timing sucked," he admitted. "I was a little drunk."

Dylan sighed. "Well, it could have been better."

"Won’t happen again." A scary wave of tenderness rolled over him; he bit Dylan’s shoulder to keep from giving way to it. 

Dylan poked his ribs. "Ow." 

Not much heat or emphasis there, so he took that for Dylan humor. Rubbed his face over the spot he’d nipped. "Sorry."

Dylan shifted a little, pulling Harper closer. He took in a deep breath, let everything slip away except Dylan, except this feeling of comfort and warmth and whatever the hell else it was. Rubbed fingertips over ribs that were amazingly prominent these days. Dylan had nearly died, he would have lost this, and it scared him, thinking about what that might have meant. Selfish pig that he was, he wanted guarantees, wanted Dylan to swear he’d live forever.

And knew better. He wasn’t some innocent kid, he’d grown up in hell, he’d lost everyone he’d loved except for the family he had created out of his shipmates. And given the nature of what they were doing, it was likely he’d lose them, eventually. Or be lost to them.

"Harper." Blurry voice. "Stop thinking."

"How do you know I’m thinking?"

"You’re quiet and you’re awake."

He grinned against Dylan’s skin. "Yeah, okay, boss."

Another poke in the ribs, this one half-hearted. "Sleep."

"You first."

Strangled sound, not quite laughter, but in a few minutes, Dylan did.

  


* * *

Dylan woke to find Harper gone, sighed and rolled over, intending to get up. Instead, he went back to sleep for an unknowable period of time, woke again to smell real coffee. 

"Wakie, wakie," Harper crooned behind him.

He rolled over, squinted. Yes, Harper was holding a mug. "Mine."

Harper’s eyes narrowed. "Please."

"Thank you," he said and took the mug.

Evil grin. "Manners, manners."

He took a cautious sip, closed his eyes happily. "Someone’s been shopping."

"You oughta see Beka dicker. Oh, wait, you _have_ seen Beka dicker."

He took another sip. "It’s probably just as well I didn’t this time." God, good coffee, too. He pushed himself up against the headboard of the bed and savored it.

"Hungry? I hope so. You need to put on weight." Harper put a tray on the bed. A tray with an alarming amount of food. "I asked Rommie to help," he told Dylan happily. "You know, some of your favorite things. We figure it might help your appetite."

The sight of that much food made him queasy, actually, but maybe if he took it a little at a time. "Plotting against me with Rommie?"

Harper tilted his head, grinned. "I prefer to think of it as plotting _for_ you."

He couldn’t keep himself from laughing. "Oh. Intent makes all the difference."

Harper sat down cross-legged and snagged a meat pastry from the tray. "Exactly." Took a bite and studied Dylan as he chewed. Swallowed. "How you feeling today?" Cautious tone.

He considered. "Still too damned tired, I’m afraid. But otherwise, one helluva lot better than I have been." Tacit reassurance, perhaps, but it worked and Harper nodded, clearly relieved. "I’m tired of being tired," he added and took another sip of coffee.

Harper rolled his eyes. "Well, get over it. You’re not going to get less tired pushing yourself."

"Medical advice?"

"Harper advice. The Harper is good." Another grin.

"The Harper is better than good," Dylan told him. "At least on occasion."

"Are we talking about my sexual prowess?" Harper arched an eyebrow at him.

He chuckled. "No. If I were referring to your sexual prowess, I’d have to say that you’re only good on occasion. The rest of the time, you’re sensational."

To his amusement, Harper actually blushed, leaned over the tray to hide it. "Here, eat your Eggs Benedict."

Dylan grinned, took the plate. It tasted as good as it smelled, which was a blessing; it was entirely probable that leftover exhaustion was contributing to his distaste for eating.

"So, I’m going to go over the manifests with Beka today, make sure we didn’t get rooked on parts," Harper told him, still picking and choosing bits and pieces of Dylan’s breakfast. "Do a little of this, a little of that. Got some boards to replace, once I check the replacement stuff."

"Busy day." Dylan felt a brief flash of envy. "What’s your latest project?"

"You." Smug grin. "Gotta make sure you mind what Trance says."

"You’re enjoying this, aren’t you." 

"Damn right," Harper said cheerfully. "Means you’re here to rag on."

"Good point." 

He noted a small red mark under Harper’s ear, felt a flash of that unwonted jealousy and crooked a finger at Harper. "Come here."

"You’re not done with your breakfast."

"I’m full."

Harper shook his head. "Not even close. I’m under strict orders myself." Mischievous grin. "You wouldn’t want Beka to kill me, would you?"

"Beka wouldn’t kill you." 

"Yeah, she would. She’s really ticked off right now." 

Dylan arched an eyebrow. "Something I should know about?"

"No, it’s personal." Harper narrowed his eyes. "Do I have to feed you?"

"You and whose battalion?" He arched both eyebrows.

Harper smirked. "I don’t really need a battalion, I’ve got Rommie."

Dylan hastily took another bite. "Good point." The truth was, he was touched. It was so weirdly Harperish to threaten him to eat. 

"You need to keep your strength up," Harper told him, still smirking. "You’ve got a busy schedule today. You’ve got to eat breakfast, rest, go see Trance on med-deck, talk to Beka once the manifests get okayed so she can report on the diplomatic gig, eat again, rest some more--"

"When I get my strength back," Dylan growled, "I’m going to seriously consider aiding and abetting Beka."

Sunny smile. "Ganging up on me? Kinky."

Dylan surrendered, tilted his head back and laughed. Sobered suddenly as a thought struck him. "Harper, have you and Beka--" God, he was out of line. Was he ever. Having jealousy awakened really, as Harper would say, sucked.

Harper blinked at him, scowled. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Yes," he agreed, "I am."

The frown eased up. "Idiot." Harper moved the tray and moved up to sit next to him, bumped his shoulder against Dylan’s. "Beka’s like... well, I guess she’s family. Even if she does wanna strangle me today."

He bumped back. "I’m not completely responsible for the stupid things I say right now," he told Harper apologetically. "Being sick seems to have scrambled my brain."

Harper leaned up a little, brushed a kiss over Dylan’s mouth. "Couldn’t not scramble ‘em. You were one sick puppy, Dylan."

He wanted another kiss. "I think I’m glad I don’t remember it."

"Trance doped you up, kept pumping you full of stuff to keep your temp down and the seizures damped." Harper kissed him again, but it was disappointingly chaste. "I better get going or Beka really will strangle me."

"I could give you the day off and put you in charge of me." He felt only the briefest qualm about that offer.

"Oooooh, tempting." Harper’s mouth twitched. "Believe me. But honestly, I gotta get some stuff done. Or maybe Rommie will even gang up with Beka and you won’t have to."

"Hey, I’m still the captain." He couldn’t help but notice that he sounded sulky.

"But you’re, um, what’s that thing, relieved of duty until you get certified fit again." Bluntly. And then Harper kissed him again, a little more warmly. "You’re kind of sexy when you’re pouting."

"I do not pout." With dignity. "I sulk. There’s a difference."

Sweet smile. A smile he hadn’t seen before. "And you’re honest. I like that in a guy." Another warm kiss. "Just be good or you’ll have a, a relapse and it’ll be that much longer until you get any Sensational!Harper in the sack."

He scowled. "Is there something you and Trance haven’t told me? I wasn’t aware that sexual activity was contraindicated during my recuperation."

"I love it when you talk dirty," Harper told him and tapped the tip of his nose. "Listen, dammit, you nearly died."

"I know, I know." He handed Harper the plate, with the mostly eaten eggs. "I really am full."

Narrowed eyes for a moment. "Okay, but you have to keep the tray handy for nibbling. And nibble."

He was suddenly tired. "Yes, master."

Harper snickered. "Ooooh, I like that." Sobered again. "Hey, you scared hell out me, ya know." 

Like he could resist that, like he could resist that vulnerability. He never had been able to, even before they’d become lovers. He leaned in, took a kiss back. "Yeah, I know. I’m bitching and grumbling when I ought to be grateful I’m still here to bitch and grumble."

"I hate it when people tell me I oughta be grateful," Harper told him drily, "So I’m not gonna say that. I’m gonna be a pain in the ass for a while, that’s all." Sudden swift kiss and hug and a mutter in his ear. "Don’t wanna lose you." 

His throat went tight and his eyes burned. He hugged back, just as hard. "Yeah." Softly. Then, pretending to sulk again. "Okay, go, get to your busy schedule. It’s time for my nap."

Sunny smile. "Good! I’ll stop by and wake you up when Trance is ready for you." Harper scrambled off the bed, out of reach, as Dylan tried to pull him over again.

"Right." He felt his mouth twitch, threw a pillow at Harper’s backside. He could hear Harper laughing all the way out in the hall as the door closed.

And then, he really did slide back down and pull the blankets back over his head.

  


* * *

"So what am I supposed to tell Dylan, Harper? I could maybe say, yes, we have a good shot at signing these people to the Commonwealth, and oh, by the way, Harper did the horizontal tango with the Kirin ambassador’s aide?" Beka was still snarking at him.

"I thought you had a bug up your-- ear about that," he told her, amused. "Dylan already knows. About the aide, I mean."

Beka blinked at him. "You told him?"

He grinned crookedly. "We don’t bullshit each other in private, Beka." Whatever else he could say, Dylan hadn’t lied to him. Hadn’t exactly volunteered the truth, but hadn’t lied to him, hadn’t even tried. Realizing that had made it easier to understand precisely _why_ he had been ready to believe Dylan’s apology. Losing ten years of his life to the terror of watching Dylan collapse hadn’t hurt, either, of course, but he’d been ready from the moment he’d glanced up to see Dylan at the door of his workshop. "In other words, yes."

Some of her temper drained away. "Oh. Well. Good. I’m glad." Then, like she was afraid she was pushing her luck. "He didn’t care?"

"Beka." He scowled at her. "I’m busy enough today, I’d like to check in on Dylan sometime before 2400 hours."

"You never tell me anything," she said plaintively. "Used to be I couldn’t _stop_ you from telling me things, even when it was too much information. You won’t tell me how things are going, you mope around here for days and Dylan broods like crazy, and then when he’s sick you’re about ready to punch Tyr out to get into the isolation unit--can’t I even have a _hint_?"

He smirked suddenly. "You just want to know what he’s like in bed."

Beka put her hands on her hips. "So? Is that so wrong? A person gets curious, that’s all. I mean, there are times when he can be so stuffy."

"Inventive." He smirked again. "Creative. Fleeeeeeexible." He thought of Dylan’s comment to him earlier and grinned outright. "Sensational."

"Bastard." She was grinning though. "Okay, stop, TMI."

"You wanted to know." He went back to his manifests, humming happily.

"I still oughta strangle you," she grumbled.

"Then you wouldn’t have me to give you all the details," he said cheerfully.

"Like you would." She sighed, put upon. "Okay, okay. I’ll go and make my report to him and stop avoiding it."

"Good idea, boss." He grinned at her sidelong. And people said _he_ was incorrigible. "And while you’re there, don’t even think about what he looks like naked or I’ll have to hurt you."

She gave him a perplexed look. "Do you or do you not have an open relationship?"

"We don’t," he said, enjoying her confusion. "We’re doing that--" Paused, trying to remember what Dylan had called it. "We’re doing that exclusivity thing after all."

Her eyes widened slightly, but she was clearly still baffled. "Oooookay. Whatever." A vague gesture and she was gone, leaving him to finish his work.

He grinned and continued checking things off.

  


* * *

To Dylan’s dismay, Harper’s description of his day was pretty much on target. He slept until Trance arrived at his quarters, managed to struggle into a shirt and a pair of comfortable pants before letting her in. She and Rommie determined that he was a) alive, b) still mending and c) needed to eat again. He was beginning to get annoyed with the focus on his food intake; Harper was one thing, he could roll with that, it was Harperish. And since he was distinctly fond of Harperish, he could deal.

Still, he had to admit that they were right. So he ate.

While he was eating, Beka appeared, gave him a rapidfire account of the previous evening, summed it up with, "We’ve got a good shot," and then fled, her face flushed.

He found he didn’t even want to wonder about that.

He was tired of his own quarters. Taking a pillow and blanket, he took a meandering route to the Observation deck and made himself a sort of pallet on one of the benches, so he could see the stars. He fell asleep again while thinking how to, as Beka said, put the seal on the deal with the Kirin. Woke to feel someone stroking his hair and turned his head sleepily to see Harper, who was crouched beside the bench.

"Sorry," Harper breathed, "Didn’t mean to wake you up."

He smiled a little. "S’okay. Feels good." 

"You doin’ okay?" Harper’s fingers moved in his hair again.

He nearly purred. "Better than that now."

Harper rewarded him with a grin. "I think your brain’s still a little scrambled." But he kissed the corner of Dylan’s mouth lightly.

He let his eyes half-close again. "Maybe. Maybe not. Did you get Beka calmed down?"

Harper snickered. "My neck is still intact, isn’t it?"

"Good." He turned his head into Harper’s touch. "I’m fond of your neck the way it is."

"Yeah?" Harper nuzzled him. "That’s cool. I like yours, too. I can’t believe you came out here to sleep, are you some kind of masochist?"

"I like it here, you know that." He nuzzled back. "I suppose I should get up. And eat."

"Yup." Harper kissed his mouth, kissed him again. "Your muscles still sore?"

"A little. Not much." He felt almost too comfortable to move. "Are you done for the day?"

"Got just one project left," Harper said comfortably. "You."

In that case, moving sounded like a good idea. "I like the sound of that."

"I’ll even give you a rubdown with some of that stuff Trance makes." Harper rose, stretched, and held out a hand. "But after we eat."

Ah, yes. But he didn’t begrudge Harper. Like many who had grown up on starvation rations, Harper was serious about his meals. He’d noticed that Harper--not exactly hoarded, but always kept something in his pocket or stuffed in his belt for ‘later’. A security issue, perhaps, but it was also possible that the same conditions that had damaged Harper’s immune system had played merry hell with his metabolism. When hungry, Harper was... short of temper, to say the least.

It explained Harper’s anxiety about his lack of appetite.

He took the outstretched hand, tugged himself up. Rubbed his face. "Something lavish," he muttered. "I’m in the mood."

Harper brightened. "Great. What sounds good?"

"Something lavish that I can eat in bed." He hated being this tired. "Maybe a modest serving of something lavish."

"You want it, you got it." Harper pulled him to his feet, hugged him hard. "Look, I know you hate this. Captain Superman, and all that. You just gotta give yourself some time, you know. Time to heal."

He put his arms around Harper, rubbed his cheek against the spiky hair. "Yeah, I know. I hope to god you’ve never been this sick."

"Not really. Not like that. I was pretty wiped out after they put the neural net in." Harper let go of him, grabbed the blanket and pillow. "But that was different. Mostly."

He found the idea alarming. The kind of tech it would take and the relative barbarity of this time-- "Why did you get it?"

Brief sidelong look. "Didn’t have any choice." A shrug. "It works, I like having it. Mostly." A crooked grin. "Except when Perseids dump data into it."

Dylan hesitated. "Bannon?"

"Yeah." Harper put an arm around his waist for a moment. "Old history, Dylan. Come on, I’m starving."

Bits and pieces. That’s how he got the history of Harper most days anyway, this was no different. But it roused that sleeping rage and once again he was savagely glad that Bannon was dead, savagely glad that Harper had put that nightmare in the grave. He put an arm around Harper’s shoulder. "I might need help," he told Harper solemnly.

Delight in Harper’s smile and Harper’s arm went back around him. "Cool."

The delight cooled his rage. At least for now.

  


* * *

Setting his plate carefully down on the floor, Harper reached for the jar of cream Trance had given him. "Okay, strip down."

Dylan, presently lounging in a most unCommonwealth way on his pillows, arched an eyebrow. "Dare I hope?"

Harper snorted. "You don’t." How could anyone have any libido at all after being so sick? Or while looking so damn--well, maybe not frail, Dylan was too big to ever look frail, but he sure didn’t look like himself right now. "I’m gonna give you that rubdown."

Dylan blinked. "God, I must be getting old, that sounds almost as good as sex."

Grinning, Harper pointed at him. "So I repeat, strip down."

"You could help." Dylan spread his arms invitingly. 

Narrowing his eyes, Harper considered. "Good point. But it will take less time if I don’t have to fend you off."

"I’ll be good." 

He wasn’t sure about that, there was a suspicious glint in Dylan’s eye, but hell if he could really resist for long. But Dylan was good, except for trying to steal a kiss, and he certainly wasn’t going to say no to that. Warm bare skin, and he kissed that, too, chivvied Dylan to lie on his stomach. "Gonna start with your back."

"I’m beginning to feel like an Aslari pasha." Dylan rested his chin on his folded arms. "Not that I’m complaining.

Harper grinned, shifted to straddle Dylan’s hips. "What does that make me? An Aslari pleasure boy?" He dipped his fingers into the cream, started with the back of Dylan’s neck.

"An incredibly talented Sasleen masseur." Dylan sighed. "You have no idea how good that feels."

"I could," Harper said, teasing a little. "Aren’t you the one who’s so big on that turn about is fair play thing?"

"Mmmmm, like you have to try and get my hands on you." Amused tone. "Name the time and place."

Laughing, Harper leaned forward, nuzzled Dylan’s hair. "As soon as you’re up to it, right here."

"It’s a deal." Dylan turned his head, sighed again in pleasure as Harper’s fingers worked the cream in. "Really, you have no idea. If you ever decide to change careers--"

"Right. Well, I only have one client I’m interested in." Harper laughed softly. "Couldn’t make much of a living."

"I could keep you in room and board." Lazy voice. "And possibly find other things to keep you out of trouble."

"Yeah, like what?"

"Oh, inventing things is a good start."

He snickered, worked down from Dylan’s shoulder. "Just for fun?"

"And profit, actually." Dylan smiled, his eyes half-closed. "I haven’t been thinking in the right terms. Some of the things you come up with could be useful in terms of, heh, negotiation tools."

He considered that, a little amazed. "Come on, they aren’t that great."

"You might be surprised, Harper. So much was lost."

He poked Dylan’s ribs gently. "No brooding."

Another smile. "I’ll try not to."

"You’re not allowed to brood when you’re a pasha."

"Hmmmm. I would think that could lead to more brooding, actually. A life of nothing but pleasure and decadence--fun, but somehow boring."

"Are you sure you’re not an adrenaline junkie?" Dylan’s lower back was really tense, he found. Hardly surprising, given aches and pains and, say hey, let’s not forget seizures. He smoothed the cream in gently, watching for flinches. Dylan tensed briefly at one spot, took in a deep breath and relaxed again, and that trust was heady shit, stronger than any intoxicant.

"I’m reasonably sure I’m not. But I could be wrong." Sleepy voice. "I see your plan now. Drug me with Trance’s concoction and get me to fall asleep."

"Just trying to build your strength up." He grinned again. "Believe me, there’s nothing I’d like better than to molest you, but I’m not into molesting the unconscious or helpless."

Dylan growled wordlessly. "I’m _not_ helpless."

"Heh."

He should have known better. Flat on his back, laughing his ass off, with a grumpy Dylan leaning over him. "Who’s helpless?"

He couldn’t stop laughing long enough to get the breath to answer. Dylan kissed him, he wrapped his arms around Dylan and kissed back. Dylan made a satisfied sound in his throat and dove in. And as good as Dylan felt and tasted, he still wasn’t sure that was the best of ideas. He pushed Dylan up. "Down, boy."

"Why?" Dylan didn’t fight him, but did move his mouth to Harper’s jaw. "I’m feeling a lot better."

Oh. He certainly felt good to Harper. But... "Okay, fine, but let’s not get too ambitious. Rommie would kill me."

"What the hell does Rommie have to do with it?" Dylan raised his head, frowned. "What the hell did she tell you?"

"She didn’t tell me anything." Harper couldn’t help himself, Dylan’s expression was just too hilarious, he began to laugh. "I meant, if you have a relapse or something, she’ll kill me."

Dylan’s frown eased. "I don’t think I’m going to have a relapse from necking." 

Well, put that way--he pushed Dylan back over, reversing their positions. "I can’t believe you have the energy to even _think_ about getting frisky."

"Hey, I’m celebrating being alive." Dylan smiled up at him. 

Right. That was an alluring thought, really, and he kissed Dylan again, swung a knee over to straddle Dylan’s thighs. Hmm, definitely signs of life. He still couldn’t imagine how the hell Dylan had the extra energy to even think about sex, but he wasn’t complaining. Hell if he would. Instead, he leaned down for another kiss, started working his way down Dylan’s chest.

"Not fair, you’re still dressed." Dylan’s tone was plaintive.

He rolled his eyes. Sat up straight and tugged his shirt off, tossed it. Dylan’s hands settled at his hips, tugged at his waistband. Well, hell, at least he’d taken off his boots to get on the bed. He rolled off Dylan, tugged his pants and skivvies off and tossed them the way of his shirt.

Dylan, impatient as always, tugged him back, rolling onto his side, and then oh, yeah, kissing Dylan was always good, especially skin to skin, and maybe Dylan just wanted to, heh, mark his territory, and maybe Dylan was just celebrating like he’d said, and maybe it was a little of both, but he had some celebrating and marking of his own to do. Long slow kisses, and then Dylan pulled back a little, gave him a smile he’d never seen before. In his life. "You," Dylan said softly and then kissed him again. Not hungry, exactly, but still drinking him in. He reached down between them, Dylan’s hand followed and then Dylan’s hand was around them both, his hand was over Dylan’s and yes, yes, yes, that felt good, better than good.

Dylan was alive, they’d gotten past the other shit and hell if he was going to brood about it, hell if he wasn’t just going to enjoy what he had without worrying about the future. 

Lovely, lovely Dylan, he hooked his calf over Dylan’s leg, pushed his hips even closer and Dylan’s head fell back, Dylan gasped. "God, Harper."

He licked Dylan’s throat, sucked at it. Yeah, marking, he thought distantly and pushed into Dylan’s fingers. "Come for me, Dylan," he muttered and licked, nipped again. Found a nipple with his free hand and gently pinched it. 

"Oh, God!" Dylan sounded surprised, let his eyes half-close and another thrust together, rubbing cocks, gripping them and Dylan did. 

He watched for a heartbeat before the sight and sound and scent tipped him over, and Dylan shuddered against him, put a snug arm around his waist, panted into his hair.

Nice mess. Sign of life, he thought, a little smugly, and slid up a little to kiss Dylan’s mouth and eyelids. 

Dylan nuzzled back, nearly too far gone to do that. Better than drugs, sex was. Heh. He’d be willing to bet Dylan slept without feeling so much as a twinge. "Oh," Dylan breathed. "God. I think you--" A sigh.

"I what?" He touched Dylan’s eyebrow. "You okay?"

Dylan squinted. "I think you wiped me out. Not that I’m complaining," he added.

"That’s good." He folded himself around Dylan. "So crash. I’ll be here." 

Dylan nuzzled again. "Good." Blurrily.

He smiled against Dylan’s hair, put his palm against Dylan’s chest and waited for Dylan’s heartbeat to slow, for Dylan’s breathing to go deep and regular. And then he decided the hell with it and tugged the blanket over them both, settling down.

Celebrating life. Oh, yeah.

  


* * *

Dylan’s powers of recuperation were both a relief and amazingly intimidating to Harper. Three days later after he’d found Dylan asleep on the observation deck, Dylan appeared in uniform on the bridge. That was unnerving enough, but he showed up in Harper’s workshop in his basketball togs at the end of the day. Leaned against the door and surveyed Harper with a wicked smile.

"You’re kidding, right?" Harper stared at him in disbelief.

"Consider it an easy win. I’ll be lucky if I don’t pass out." Dylan grinned at him.

He thought about that, shuddered. "Uh uh. No fucking way." Hoarsely. "Once was enough."

Dylan’s expression shifted. "Hey, Harper... I’m not going to pass out. I’m feeling good, I just figure that my stamina doesn’t have a long half-life at this point."

It made him shudder again. What the hell was wrong with him? He oughta be glad Dylan was getting back to normal. But he felt faintly nauseated at the internal vision of Dylan passing out on him. "You really want to hurt yourself, get Tyr." He tried to say it shortly, but his voice cracked upward, betraying him.

And Dylan was there, suddenly, and they were sitting on the floor, and he was so close to howling like a little kid that he had to bite his lip hard. Dylan’s fingers touched his mouth lightly. "Don’t." Softly.

He leaned back against Dylan’s shoulder and arm. "I’m so lame." Sighed.

Dylan sighed, stretched his legs out on the floor and leaned back against the bulkhead. "Come here."

He eyed Dylan. "Here? What if--"

"Oh, please." Dylan rolled his eyes, tugged a lock of Harper’s hair. "Come here."

Well, hell, put that way--he climbed into Dylan’s lap, hugged hard and was hugged in return. That was good, his stomach settled, and Dylan’s hands were warm on his back, under his shirt. 

Dylan nuzzled him, drifted kisses over his cheekbone to his eyebrow. "I’m okay, Harper. I know I wasn’t, but I am now." Softly. "Trust me, I’ve learned to pay more attention. I’m not willingly leaving you, dammit." 

He looked at Dylan’s face, heart thumping. How the hell did Dylan understand so much?

Dylan smiled. "I’m afraid you’re probably going to be stuck with me. I’ll get old and you’ll get bored and there I’ll be, tagging along behind you and your latest conquest."

Oh, shit, now he really was going to burst into tears. Instead, he hugged hard again, pressed his cheek against Dylan’s hair. "Oh, like that’ll happen. You’ve seen my rate of success. I’m sticking with the sure thing. Besides, you’re old already."

He felt Dylan shake with suppressed laughter. "Well, there is that."

"You want to get some exercise, I have a better idea than basketball." Trusting himself again, he leaned back, grinned crookedly. "Let me get this stuff cleared up and I’ll show you a real good time, Cap’n, sir."

Dylan laughed outright. "You swear?"

"Cross my heart, scout’s honor, and yadda yadda." He lifted one hand solemnly. 

"Done." Dylan took hold of his face, gave him a searing, bone-rattling, mind-melting kiss. Laughed at him when he tried to get another one. "Nope, not until we get to some privacy."

"Oh, now you think of privacy," he groused, but hell if he didn’t feel one helluva lot better than he had.

  


* * *

He thought about it later, sprawled on the bed, noshing on the odd assortment of snacks that Dylan seemed to keep in stock in his quarters. Healthy stuff as well as the high fat, high salt, high sugar stuff he occasionally craved, and it was quite obviously a conscious choice on Dylan’s part. Dylan was stretched out beside him on his side, watching him nosh and rubbing the small of his back.

"You sure you don’t want some?" He held up a dre’l chip. "Very high in protein."

Dylan looked amused, but opened his mouth, accepted the chip, crunched it up with a pleasantly surprised expression. "Hmm, not bad."

"You never had them before?" Harper blinked. "But you’ve got a whole stash in the cupboard."

Dylan smirked at him. "Bait."

Harper blinked, and then got it, snickered and blushed at the same time. "Rigging a Harper trap?"

"That would be telling all my secrets." Dylan’s fingers made arcane patterns on his skin.

He felt pleasantly sore. No, that wasn’t the right word... sore was wrong. He wasn’t sure what the right word was, but it had nothing remotely to do with pain and everything to do with feeling well romped on. With. Whatever. "So you’re gonna live forever?" Not quite looking at Dylan, still embarrassed.

"Do my best." Dylan leaned in, licked the side of his throat. "Worst comes to worst, I’ll abduct you into another singularity, how’s that?"

"Boring." He put the package of chips aside and rolled into Dylan, burrowed and nuzzled and nipped, even though neither of them was likely to be up for anything serious for a while.

"There is that." Dylan enfolded him. 

"Kilometers and kilometers, parsecs and parsecs," he mused out loud.

"What?" Dylan drew back to squint at him.

He poked Dylan in the chest. "Of you." Grinned. "And all mine." More tentatively.

Dylan cracked up, poked his ribs and tickled him.

Harper fended that off, laughing almost too hard to breathe, and then they both suddenly subsided, just grinning at each other. "Hey," he said, "I’m okay with it." 

Mysteriously, Dylan got it, he could tell by Dylan’s eyes. "Good." Gentle kiss from Dylan, more nuzzling, and another lick, this one down the center of his chest like Dylan was tasting him. But Dylan raised his head again, smiled at him. "Does this mean I can pounce without warning?"

Harper flushed, but it was okay. Dylan was asking him seriously. "Probably not unless you want to get busted in the chops before I catch up to my monkey brain."

"Good point." Dylan used a finger to draw lazy patterns on Harper’s chest. "I’d rather not."

"If I pounced on you without warning, what would you do?" He was honestly curious. What did other people do?

Slow grin. "I’d probably punch you. And feel terrible."

Somehow, that made Harper feel better. "Yeah?"

Dylan nodded. "Probably, yeah." 

He looked down at his chest, watched Dylan’s patterns. They were somehow mesmerizing, and it felt good anyway. "What’re you doing?"

Another slow grin. "Writing magic spells, things to keep you out of trouble and cocky and tough."

That made his throat get tight. Yeah, right, tough. "You mean you don’t want me needy and emotional?"

Dylan gave him a steady look. "Hell, Harper, I’ll take you anyway I can get you. I like you. I more than like you."

Uh oh. Harper put his fingers over Dylan’s mouth. "Don’t say it." Shakily. "You know what happens. You say stuff and the universe notices you’re around and zap, that’s all she wrote."

Dylan arched an eyebrow. "Really?" Lips moving against his fingers. "I never knew that."

Harper nodded solemnly. "You have to work around it."

Dylan smiled. 

When Dylan really smiled, Harper could see where the faint smile lines in his face had come from, and his eyes sort of crinkled at the corners, which told Harper where _those_ faint lines had come from. Before getting caught on an event horizon for three hundred years, Dylan must have smiled a lot. "I know what to do," Dylan murmured, still against his fingers. 

He blinked. "You do?" Dylan’s breath was distracting.

"Yeah, I do." Dylan kissed his fingertips, wrote something new on his chest, a new pattern. 

A pattern he could read. Shit. Dylan really was going to make him bawl. He blinked hard, shoved Dylan over on his back again, straddled him. Considered. "Two can play at this game," he mock-growled. "Magic spells. Secret messages." 

Dylan didn’t seem disturbed; he put his arms behind his head and looked down, watched as Harper touched his chest. "What are your spells for?"

"To keep you out of trouble." He felt oddly shy suddenly. Oddly serious. One spell. Two. And then a secret, except he didn’t really think it was a secret from Dylan. "There."

"Mmmmm." Dylan’s smile was... it was that smile again. 

Well, what could he do? He kissed it.

It looked like he’d been overestimating their recovery time.

  


* * *

It felt good to be back on his feet, to have recuperation behind him. Dylan surveyed the command deck, bit back a smile at the sight of Harper studiously not looking over at him. Harper was still watching him narrowly, as if expecting another collapse at any time. Basketball was still strictly out, at least for the moment, and Tyr appeared to find the secretive nature of their jogging hours obscurely amusing these days.

He’d seen Harper protective of Beka, he’d seen Harper protective of Trance. He’d just never expected to be on the receiving end of it. 

"Looking good," Beka said, glancing over at him approvingly. "There’s something unfair about how quickly you recuperate."

"It has nothing to do with fairness," Rommie commented. "It has to do with medical care."

"And genetics," he added mildly. "I was fortunate in my parents."

"No kidding." Beka arched an eyebrow at him, daring him to comment or question.

He decided against doing either. Instead, he changed the subject. "Good work on Kirin." They’d gotten confirmation last night; somehow, they’d gotten another member of the Commonwealth.

Beka grinned. "I had help. But thanks."

His mouth twitched. Ah, yes. Harper. And Tyr. "So you did." 

"Even Tyr behaved himself," Beka said, eyeing him, as if she could read his mind. 

Harper clearly was nervous, he wandered over with an elaborately casual air. "You’d have been impressed with her, boss."

Beka narrowed her eyes at Harper. "You were very helpful, too," she purred.

Harper’s eyes widened slightly and two bright spots of color bloomed, one on each cheekbone. "Oh, but you were the one dancing with the Kirin ambassador," he said back, rather more silkily than Dylan expected.

Dylan averted his gaze hastily, the desire to laugh well nigh irresistible. To help with that, he pinched the bridge of his nose, looked over the console in front of him. "Well, we’ll see how things go at our next diplomatic visit," he said, his voice a little strangled. "Perhaps I should always let the three of you handle things."

When he glanced back, Beka was smirking at Harper. "I’m not sure that Harper could repeat his success."

Harper’s eyes were narrowed. "Oh, I could. I choose not to." 

He fought the urge to send them to separate corners. "Beka," he began, and then his urge to laugh dissipated. Harper looked--well, like he was taking it far too seriously. "Beka, really."

She gave him an innocent look. "What?"

He rolled his eyes, looked at Harper. "You. With me. Basketball. I need the exercise and I think I’ve got the stamina again."

Tyr, in the pilot’s chair, arched an eyebrow. "If I were prone to wagering--"

"Don’t," Dylan told him firmly. "I have enough stamina for at least one game."

Diverted, Harper tilted his head back, considered. "Think I’ll beat him, Tyr?"

"Handily." Tyr’s voice was dry.

Harper grinned.

It was certainly nice to see that Tyr and Harper had resolved their differences, Dylan thought irritably. "Don’t get cocky."

Unfortunately, as it happened, Tyr was right, but he had a damn good time anyway. The only depressing thing was that Harper was obviously only playing at two-thirds his usual level, trying to give him a break without actually giving the game up.

He finally signaled defeat, laughing almost too hard to stand up, 

Harper eyed him uncertainly. "Are you okay?"

"I’m fine." He sank down on the floor, his back to the wall. "Getting there. Damn, I hate getting out of shape."

Clearly worried, Harper hunkered down in front of him. "You want some water?"

He sighed inwardly, grinned outwardly. "Harper, I’m not made of glass."

That got him a scowl. "I didn’t say you were."

He crooked a finger at Harper. "Come here and stop worrying. I’m winded and sweaty, my knees feel like rubber, and I’m good, I’m fine, I’m better than fine."

A long look, and then a crooked grin. "I’m being a pain."

"Not really a pain," Dylan told him generously. "My job is worrying, yours is to be brilliantly quirky."

Harper appeared to be charmed by that job description, he came over and sat down next to Dylan, bumping shoulders. "Brilliantly quirky?"

"Yeah." He bumped back. "I see you’ve been reproducing your housekeeping drones."

Harper grinned, tilted his head back. "I’m happy if Rommie’s happy."

"She seems to approve." He took in a deep breath, used the hem of his shirt to wipe his forehead. "And if Rommie’s happy, I’m happy." Brief sidelong grin, he saw Harper’s mouth curve again, turned to look directly at Harper. "You have to stop worrying so much, Harper."

Harper scowled again. "Or?"

He saw where that was heading, shook his head. "Or nothing. You have to stop worrying so much."

Harper scowled again, looked away. Bumped up against him, by which he supposed Harper was just struggling through it the way he himself had. Did. Would do. "Yeah, I guess. I mean, it’s not like we don’t ever run into trouble out here." He looked back at Dylan. "What if I can’t?"

Dylan bumped back. "Then we both have to get very used to annoying one another, not to mention providing amusement to Tyr."

Harper’s eyes narrowed. "You aren’t above playing dirty, are you?"

Dylan grinned. "That’s not playing dirty. Playing dirty would be pointing out that Rev Bem will be forced to counsel both of us."

Scowl or not, Harper snickered. "Okay, okay, I get it." 

He leaned over, nuzzled Harper’s sweat-damp hair. Clean sweat, new sweat, and it, whoa, did a little to rev up his pulse rate and respiration, so he licked Harper’s temple.

Harper gave him a semi-stunned look, so he did it again, and ended up with Harper trying to climb into his lap while simultaneously checking all Dylan’s dental work with his tongue. Mental note: licking turned Harper on, and that was all he had time for because Harper turned _him_ on however and whenever, and if that wasn’t a sad state of affairs for an officer of the High Guard, he didn’t know what was.

Eventually, of course, Harper needed air and when he pulled back, his expression was slightly glazed. "You licked me."

"I lick you all the time," Dylan pointed out, a little surprised, but hardly in the mood to protest. 

"Not like that." Harper dove in again.

All of which was very satisfying, but he had a more comfortable venue in mind. "Harper," he murmured and nipped Harper’s mouth, "Harper," his jaw, "Harper," and his throat.

"What?" Harper sounded irritated. "What?"

"Not here." He nipped again.

"You started it." But Harper’s annoyance ebbed. "Okay, where? My quarters are closer."

"That’s true," Dylan muttered, considering distance. "Up, let’s go."

Harper popped up like a child’s toy, held out a hand for him. "Now," he said impatiently.

Hoping to god they didn’t run into anyone in their current condition, Dylan accepted the hand. "Bet I can beat you there."

"Hah!" Harper eyed him, pushed him against the wall. "If we make it there."

Compact and warm and oh, hell, this was not the place, not when it was too easy to observe from command. He leaned down, kissed Harper hard, and then all but dragged him toward the door.

  


* * *

Harper closed his eyes, listened to Dylan’s heartbeat and breathing. Slow and steady now, like his own and by all the Vedrans’ forgotten gods, that had been incredible sex. Even the brief argument over who was going to get fucked versus who was going to do the fucking hadn’t cooled things. He grinned, rubbed his cheek against Dylan’s chest and got a sleepy murmur, a hand in his hair. 

He’d wanted Dylan to fuck him, Dylan had wanted to be fucked, and hell if he could say no even if there were times it sort of freaked him to top Dylan. Dylan was big on that turn and turn about, only not like he was counting the number of times. Like he really wanted it, and if there was anybody who could resist being wanted like that, Harper wanted to meet him and shake his hand.

"Stop it." Drowsy voice.

He grinned again. "Stop what?"

"Thinking."

"Why?" Harper shifted to rest his arms on Dylan’s chest, put his chin on them. 

Dylan cracked an eyelid open. "Are you brooding?"

"That’s your job, remember? I’m just thinking m’thoughts."

Dylan’s eye closed again. "Better be good ones."

"Oh, yeah," Harper purred. "They are." Sex with Dylan was his favorite high. Somehow, Dylan managed to combine the right amount of pure animal lust with just the right amount of... something. 

Dylan’s fingers moved in his hair. "Good." 

"Very good thoughts." He smiled, put his head down again, listened to the steady thud of Dylan’s heart. Very reassuring. Dylan was right, they couldn’t go nuts worrying about each other, they couldn’t stop being who and what they were, and okay, maybe it was normal for him to have been scared shitless when Dylan collapsed, but Dylan was obviously fine. 

Heh. More than fine. Fanfuckingtastic.

"Mmmmm." Dylan shifted, pulled him upward; he let himself be tugged until they were face to face, took a kiss and gave one. "That’s better," Dylan muttered. "Good thoughts. About what?"

He snickered, rubbed noses with Dylan. "What do you think?"

Smug smile. "Ah. Well. That’s all right then."

"I thought so." He nuzzled, kissed the corner of Dylan’s mouth. "You okay?" The words escaped him before he could bite his tongue.

Dylan opened his eyes again and one corner of his mouth twitched. "Am I this annoying?"

"Yes." He couldn’t help himself, he snickered.

Dylan sighed. "Never better," he muttered. "God, no wonder you get irritated."

"Nah, it’s not that bad," Harper said generously. "I mean, at least you care whether or not I’m okay. I can count on one hand the number of people I’ve been with who did."

Dylan’s expression shifted slightly. "Damn right, I do." Almost irascible.

He grinned. "Yeah. Me, too. This is crew quarter’s, though, cap’n, and I’m not sure this bed is big enough to sleep the two of us comfortably. You awake enough to head to yours?"

"Not alone." Dylan’s eyes narrowed.

He snickered again. "Oh, yeah, like _that_ would happen."

Dylan relaxed. "Just making sure."

He grinned, took another kiss and rolled away. Deeper, deeper, and deeper, he told himself, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Too late for that now anyway, and from Dylan’s expression, it was too late for them both. Heh. At least he wasn’t drowning alone, he guessed, and he couldn’t, right at the moment, think of anyone he’d rather go under for or with.

Lucky for him that was a sentiment that Dylan seemed to share.

Heh.

  


* * *

They walked to Dylan’s quarters companionably, talking of music and basketball and Deryni Drift, their next destination.

Once inside, he realized that he was hungry, starving, even, and went to Dylan’s cabinet to rummage. Dylan must have restocked, and Dylan stepped up behind him, took two packages out and grinned. "Self-heating meals. Figured you ought to have a few nutritious things in there for times like these."

Harper snatched a package of dried fruit and followed Dylan to the table. "Real food? My system might not be able to stand the shock."

"You’ve been eating pretty well lately." Dylan grinned at him.

God, he was totally gone, he was totally lame, he got off watching Dylan smile, watching Dylan crinkle up. He had to bite his lip to keep from laughing out loud at himself. "Yeah, hopefully that’s got my body used to it."

It was good, though, some kind of combination meat and rice and vegetable thing, and hey, Dylan seemed to have some fetish about making sure he ate, too, so at least they were indulging together. Which thought made him snicker, and Dylan arched an eyebrow. "Nothing important," he said and leaned over the corner of the table to kiss Dylan, an impulse he was glad about because Dylan’s smile was damn well worth giving into it.

Crazy, crazy, crazy, the universe didn’t work this way, he knew that from his own life, but Dylan did. Dylan worked this way, and maybe that was half of this crazy need to protect Dylan, to keep Dylan working that way. Dylan outweighed him, towered over him, and generally was pretty damn pragmatic, it wasn’t that he believed that was an innocent, but it was like he’d said to Trance, next to Dylan he was a good guy, Dylan seemed to have that effect on a lot of people. Unfortunately, not everyone, but hey, it was a start. 

Once they’d finished, he disposed of the containers and climbed back into Dylan’s lap. "My turn," he said and smirked.

Dylan looked baffled briefly. "Your turn?" Then, startled. "Oh. My god, you have a high opinion of my abilities."

"And your recuperation time." Harper grinned at him, slid his hands under Dylan’s somewhat ratty shirt. Warm skin, coarse hair, and oh, yeah, nicely responsive nipples and Dylan laughed softly.

"Greedy bastard, aren’t you." Sudden swift movement, and Dylan was standing up; startled, he clutched at Dylan’s shoulders, felt Dylan’s hands on his ass and cracked up as he was carried toward the bed. 

Dylan dropped him there, pounced as Harper rolled away, and they ended up nearly wrestling, both of them laughing like hell, and who knew that laughter could be a part of getting laid? Dylan, evidently, and now Harper was learning, and it only made him hotter, fighting to get Dylan out of his clothes while Dylan was attempting to do the same to him.

"This might go faster," he finally said, still laughing, "If you’d lie still."

Dylan yanked at Harper’s shorts, got them down to mid-thigh. "I like undressing you." 

"Yeah, well, I like undressing you, but--oh, god, Dylan--" Dylan had simply swallowed him down, and the shock of pleasure shorted out his brain, he couldn’t for the life of him remember what he’d been saying.

Not that it mattered, hell if it did, Dylan’s hands got rid of the shorts and stroked the inside of his thighs, he was so hard he ached in about a second and a half.

He tried to squirm around to return the favor, but Dylan wasn’t having any of that, Dylan was being typically single-minded and he really couldn’t complain about that, not when Dylan was single-minded about stroking the slick into him and sucking him at the same time. Multi-tasking, must be something they taught High Guard types at that academy, but while Dylan was capable of multitasking elsewhere, he absolutely excelled at it in bed, and why the _fuck_ was he even thinking about this right now?

Dylan’s mouth released him, Dylan’s fingers stretched him and he worked himself on those fingers, making needful sounds because he had somehow forgotten how to speak Common. Damn. That didn’t leave much, he was more or less monolingual, he’d have to learn how to sign or something, and when Dylan’s fingers withdrew, he considered giving Dylan a sign that couldn’t be misinterpreted.

Dylan leaned over him, licked his belly and chest and he was distantly pleased to see that Dylan’s effect on him was clearly reciprocated, Dylan’s cock was just fucking perfect, flushed and hard and he tried to reach down, got his wrist nipped and held down, and it said something about where he was that having Dylan hold his wrist didn’t panic him, didn’t set his monkey brain off, it only annoyed him.

And then, oh, yeah, fuck yes, Dylan pressed into him, thick and hot, and it felt so damn good. Another thing that Dylan had given him. Sure, Bannon had teased orgasm from him, even when he had hated and feared the most, but this--this was a gift, this was incredible, and he hadn’t expected it, even when he’d wanted Dylan. He arched and pushed into Dylan’s cock, bracing himself against the burn and stretch of penetration, knowing now that the burn would melt into that incredible rush, that pleasure. Dylan sank in, his expression shifting to something effortful, controlled, and that, too, was part of the rush, knowing that it was because of him. Dylan braced himself on his hands, one on each side of Harper, practically panting, he leaned up and kissed Dylan hungrily, hooked his legs around Dylan’s ass. Involuntary thrust, and Dylan’s tongue was down his throat, his cock was trapped between them, and he reached down, stroked himself.

Oh, fuck, that was good, Dylan knew how to hit the angle, Dylan’s hips moved on the backthrust and he whimpered into Dylan’s mouth, stroked himself again. Dylan, Dylan, Dylan, and there wasn’t anything else, there wasn’t anything else, he had the brief fanciful notion that every time he and Dylan had sex it erased a little bit more of what Bannon had done. Overwrote it, maybe, and that might be a stupid thought, but hell if he cared. He hooked his other arm around Dylan’s neck, pushed back again and again, lost himself in the rhythm, the spiraling sensations and then, whammo, it snuck up on him and he arched up, head thrown back, Dylan’s lips and teeth pushing him over the edge--

\--pushing Dylan over the edge, too, seemed like, he felt/saw that control desert Dylan, several hard thrusts, and Dylan sucked hard on his throat, groaned into his skin and came. Fuck, fuck, it made him wish he could come again, or link Dylan into his neural net so he could feel Dylan’s, and wasn’t that a thought--he gasped, laughed weakly and turned his head, seeking Dylan’s mouth again, drowned himself in that kiss.

Demanding kiss at first, gentling down as the edge of sensation passed, and then it was several gentle kisses and Dylan nuzzled him, shifted his weight. Smiled down at him. "That what you had in mind?"

Harper laughed. "I’m not sure, can we do it again?"

Dylan laughed out loud, which was good, but bad, because he was softening and slipping out, and hell, Harper was always kinda sorry when that happened. "Sure. Give me about twelve hours."

"Okay." He pulled Dylan down for another kiss. "You got it."

Oh, yeah, kissing was good, kissing was very good, and Dylan liked kissing, Dylan was good at kissing, and what always surprised him, Dylan never just kissed before and during sex, Dylan kissed after. A lot. He licked his way out of a particularly satisfying one, and fairly purred as Dylan shifted, rolled them both over, and yanked the blankets over them.

"Now, of course, I’m going to crash," Dylan murmured. "God, Harper." Another lengthy, luxurious kiss.

"I’m already gone." Which was mostly true. He could kiss Dylan in his sleep, would kiss Dylan in his sleep, wished they didn’t have to stop to sleep, and now he _knew_ he was crashing, thinking idiotic things like that.

Dylan’s finger traced out a pattern on his back; he had to concentrate on it, blinked hard. "Me, too," he muttered, into Dylan’s shoulder, raised his head to see Dylan’s mouth curve and his eyes close. It warmed him, and he put his head on the pillow, burrowed into Dylan and followed Dylan down into sleep.

  


* * *

Deryni Drift wasn’t El Dorado Drift, but it was damn fine anyway. 

"Is this not the place to be?" Harper spread his arms expansively as they stood at the entrance to the central plaza. "Wine, women and song." 

Dylan looked at him, eyes narrowing.

Harper blinked. "Figuratively speaking."

One corner of Dylan’s mouth twitched; he took it as reassurance.

"Harper," Beka warned, "If I have to come and haul you out of a bar--"

"You won’t, you won’t." Harper held up his hands. "Honest, boss, I’ll behave."

"You’d better." She gave him a long look. "Or, my, my, I’ll have to perhaps do some territorial exploration."

He glared at her. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. She was just trying to annoy him. He wasn’t going to let it work. Much.

"I want everyone back aboard by 0500," Dylan said, diverting Beka briefly. "Under their own power and without a police escort."

Beka looked at him again, Trance giggled, and Tyr managed to suggest boredom. Rev had opted to stay on board, as he often did, and had given Trance a short list of items. Trance was always fun to have around, and Dylan had to go do the boring official thing, at least for a while, so as the group split up, he and Trance wandered across the plaza. 

"I need to find some real Scotch," he told Trance. "Any ideas, your Purpleness?"

She blinked at him. "Scotch?"

"For Dylan." He felt his face get hot even though, as Dylan had so often said, there wasn’t any fucking way his fellow crewmembers hadn’t caught a clue by this time. And besides, Trance’s occasional prescience meant that keeping secrets was iffy anyway.

"Oh," she said, and looked up and down the rows of shops. "Hmmmm, let’s try there."

He couldn’t read the script that proclaimed what kind of shop it was, but hey, it was the sparkly purple babe, so he followed her. To his delight, they had a bottle of fabulously old Scotch, and hell, since he was on board the Andromeda, he didn’t really _need_ his pay to live, so he had plenty stashed, and Trance grinned at him happily as he transferred the thrones to the shopkeeper’s account.

"Where to now?" he asked, once they were outside the shop.

Trance put her arm through his. "Well, Rev needs some incense, and I’ve got a few I-Wants, and you need some new boots."

"I do?"

She giggled. "Dylan said it was time to replace the pair that got eaten."

"Only one of them got eaten," he said. "When did he say this?"

She gave him a wide-eyed look. "Before we left the ship, silly. He said to make sure you got new boots." She patted her bag. "So, we’ll get you new boots."

His face was hot again. Trust Dylan, he thought, and found he was grinning like an idiot. "Great. Let’s find some."

She pointed at the jumpsuit again. "First!"

He rolled his eyes. "Okay, but you only get to try on one. If there’s anything I hate worse than waiting while you try on clothes, I don’t wanna think about it."

Trance tugged at his arm.

He let her, laughing a little, his eyes moving automatically around the plaza as they crossed it. Habit, and the encounter with Bannon, he supposed, but he ran his eyes over faces, judged escape routes, measured distance, and then they were in the shop, and he was waiting for Trance to try on the jumpsuit and dicker with the shopkeeper in Vedran.

The clothing was either too conservative or too extreme for his tastes, he thought and finally took a seat near the window, looked out over the plaza, not really scanning, just observing.

A little knot of people on the far side caught his attention, he was never sure why afterward; familiar movement, if not a familiar face, and he squinted, frowned, trying to figure out who it was.

Tall man, if the height of his companions was any indicator; dark hair cut close to the skull, so that pale skin showed through, clothes that looked expensive in cut from this distance.

He didn’t know him. Still, the odd sense of familiarity persisted, and after Trance had happily paid for her purchase and they were headed across the hexagonal plaza to yet another shop--boots, he’d insisted--he glanced that way, saw that the man was staring at him.

For no reason he could think of, that made him nervous and he tugged Trance forward into the shop. 

"Harper?" She picked up on his unease. "What is it?"

He rolled his shoulders. "Jumping at shadows." Dismissing it. A glance through the shop window showed that the man had evidently dismissed it as well, he was moving with his companions toward a restaurant at the end of that side of the plaza, moving easily. 

Moving in a way that tugged at that elusive feeling again and gave him the creeps.

"Boots," he said firmly, and put it out of his mind. Or at least in the back of his mind.

Dylan said he had to stop worrying so much. He was damned well going to try.

  


* * *

Finally free of officialese, Dylan strolled through the central plaza, keeping a weather eye out for any of his people. Who was he kidding, he was keeping an eye out for Harper. He wondered if Harper was going to be peeved about the boot issue, but by god, he’d said he was going to replace the boots weeks and weeks ago, and this was the first time opportunity had coincided with remembering his promise.

And speaking of Harper, there he was, sitting on a bench and looking morosely into the window of a clothing shop. Waiting for Trance, doubtless; as Dylan watched, Harper sighed, stretched his legs out and grinned at his own feet.

Laughing softly, Dylan approached the bench from behind, leaned over and said, "What a fine pair of boots, Mr. Harper."

Harper’s head snapped around so quickly Dylan had to lean back to save his nose. Delighted grin. "Hey!"

It warmed him, both the delight in Harper’s voice and the admiration of the boots. "Hey, yourself. Nice boots."

Harper flushed. "They’re great boots." Almost diffidently. "You know, it was okay, I’ve got other boots."

Dylan leaned on the back of the bench. "Said I’d replace ‘em." He really was well off into deep water, he told himself, it was all he could do not to touch. "After all, the other pair got separated because I got out of that disposal bin first."

Harper looked back at his feet, snickered. "That was a little scary. Thought it was going to take my foot, too."

"So did I, scared hell out of me." Dylan leaned in close enough to breathe in the scent of Harper, hair gel and the shower gel they’d shared earlier. And Harper, of course, quirky, annoying, brilliant and all his. Well, he hoped, anyway, and from Harper’s expression he rather thought he wasn’t deluding himself. "So what else have you and Trance been up to?"

Harper rolled his eyes. "She’s trying things on. There’s only so much waiting for Trance to try things on I can do. Wanna grab something to eat?"

"As long as it’s not alive when they serve it, sure." Dylan straightened, and Harper got up, gathering up packages of different sizes and shapes. "Want me to take some of those?" Trance was definitely putting Harper to use as a transport, from the look of it."

"Yeah, here, no, wait, I’ll keep that one." Unaccountably, Harper blushed, handed him something else, tucked the first package under his arm. "And this one, and oh, yeah, this one."

Dylan arched an eyebrow. "So, where to. I saw a restaurant down that way." He pointed.

Harper looked that way, his expression oddly unsettled. "Let’s see what’s over in that direction," he suggested, tilting his head the opposite way. "I don’t get a good vibe from that one."

Dylan laughed, fell into step with Harper. "A vibe? Have you been working with Trance for too long?"

"Hey, anybody can get vibes," Harper protested. "I got one about you the first time I saw you. Even if you did point that force lance at me."

He grinned. "What kind of vibe was it?"

"Well," Harper said thoughtfully, "It was a vibe kinda like I was about to get my ass kicked, really. But in a righteous sort of way, not a cut my throat and take what I had sorta way."

"Thank God for that." Dylan eyed him again, remembering that moment. "Come on, I’m starving," he told Harper, and lengthened his stride a bit.

"Hey," Harper said, "I thought I was the one who was always starving."

Dylan laughed. "You’ve been using up my extra stamina."

"Are you complaining?" Harper looked up at him, raising an eyebrow.

"I’m complimenting you," Dylan told him, and Harper grinned.

It was getting easier and easier to evoke that delight, he thought and followed Harper into the dimly lit restaurant. God help him, he was addicted to seeing it.

Considering that his life was likely to be spent attempting the near impossible, surely that wasn’t a bad thing, warmth against the cold of the long night, was it?

He didn’t think so.

"Shouldn’t we tell Trance you’re leaving," he suggested.

"I told her to look for me. The sparkly purple enigma _always_ finds me." Harper tipped him a grin. "She’ll find us."

As it turned out, Harper was right. They’d just gotten their drinks when Trance came in, bopped Harper on the head lightly with a package and sat down beside him. "Hi, Dylan." She beamed at him. "Everything go all right this morning?"

"As long as none of you gets into trouble," Dylan told her, "We should be just fine. I presented a few gifts, they accepted, and we have the start of a good economic relationship." 

"Good!" Trance beamed again. Harper was peering in her packages unabashedly. She whapped the back of his wrist, snatched the package away. "Seamus Zelazny Harper, do I peek at your underwear?"

"No, but if you want to--"

"Harper!" It escaped before Dylan could call it back, he looked fixedly at the menu for a moment before meeting Harper’s gaze. "Behave."

Harper’s expression was innocently baffled. "What did I do?"

Trance giggled.

"Behave yourself," he told Harper mildly. "I’d like to come back without suffering personal embarrassment."

Harper blinked, and Trance giggled again.

He lifted his glass, took a sip of whatever variety of ale Harper had ordered for him, arched an eyebrow. "Harper, you’re starting to make me a believer. This is good. Very good."

Somehow, Harper contrived to blush and look cocky at the same time. "The Harper is good."

"The Harper is very good," he agreed, giving the words just a touch of mischievous spin.

Harper promptly blushed again, and went back to peering in Trance’s packages and bickering with her.

Taking another sip of ale, Dylan hid his grin, reckoning he’d just embarrassed Harper enough. At least for this round.

  


* * *

"So, everything look all right?" Beka was hanging over Harper’s shoulder annoyingly, breathing down his neck.

"So far, so good, boss," he told her, trying, with limited success, to suppress his annoyance at the fact that she kept taking the manifest to see what he’d checked. "You nervous about something?"

She took the manifest _again_ and studied it. "Yeah, I’m nervous because you show up thirty minutes late smelling like ale with a goofy grin on your face." 

It stung more than it should have. Hell, Beka was always ragging on him, but it was friendship, just Beka’s way, and it hadn’t ever bothered him before. "I had half a glass," he said, more snappishly than he’d intended, "And Trance and I were with Dylan. I told you I was sorry, I took the lift in the wrong direction, had to backtrack."

She looked at him, startlement turning to thin-lipped irritation. "A little oversensitive, Seamus? Chill, will you, and just focus."

"I am focused." He held his hand out for the manifest. "You mind?"

She eyed him, handed it over. "Look, Harper, I’m just wound a little tight this morning, it was a helluva bargaining session, and I admit, it really pisses me off sometimes when Captain Terrific can walk in and suddenly the same guys who were giving me grief are falling over themselves to present a pleasing picture."

He could understand that. But it still stung. "I get it." As mildly as he could. "Sooner I get finished, sooner we’ll be gone."

A faintly apologetic look. "Yeah, good deal. My blood sugar must be crashing, I’m going to grab a bite. You want anything?"

He looked around the warehouse space. "Nah. Not unless you come across a nice chilled Sparky."

"You got it." This time, a real smile. 

He managed to return it now that he knew she wasn’t really standing around second-guessing him. "Thanks."

She grinned and headed out, leaving him to turn back to his work. It wasn’t just checking to make sure everything was there, any one of them could have done that. He had to run a quick check on the most important components, they’d been scammed in the past, and he damned well wasn’t going to have it happen. Way back, not long after Beka had given him a chance, he’d suggested this, and Beka had leapt at it, and since then, they didn’t get taken very damn often.

Far as he was concerned, Rommie deserved his best, too. 

His mood lifted after a while, and he was whistling to himself when footsteps brought him around, expecting to see Beka.

But it wasn’t Beka. It was the man he’d seen in the plaza.

Elusive familiarity clicked into place with a snap at the man’s hard grin. Fuck. Oh. Fuck. "Martin." Flatly. 

"Shame." Martin’s mouth quirked. "You haven’t changed much."

"You have." Which, if he thought about it, if he let himself think about it, was a little depressing. Martin had gotten nearly as tall as Dylan. Not as broad. "So what you brings you down here, Martin? Looking for rats? I think they keep the warehouse pretty cleared out, but hey, you might find a snack."

"You always had a mouth on you, Shame." Martin grinned again, his dark eyes as lifeless as stones. 

"And you always had a knack for witty repartee, Martin." He was glad he had his gun with him. "But I’m not that kid anymore, Martin."

"Hear you ran into Bannon." Martin ignored the insult. "Took care of him, did you?"

The hair on the back of Harper’s neck tried to stand up. "Yeah, so?" Hand on the butt of his weapon, he put the manifest on top of a transport container. 

"Did you get off on it? Getting rid of him?" 

Martin was giving him a serious case of the creeps. Not moving any closer. Not doing anything overtly threatening. Just smiling. "Martin, what the hell do you want?"

Martin shrugged. "Just catching up on old times, Shame."

It was interesting. Somehow, the incident with Dylan had bled the old name dry of its capacity to inflict pain. He looked dispassionately at Martin. "Sorry, I’ve got work to do."

A shape separated itself from the shadows near the door and his heart made a serious attempt to leap out of his chest, but it was Tyr.

"You should not be here," Tyr told Martin, his usual cool, you are not worthy tone of voice.

Martin stared at him, started to laugh. "And you’re going to make me leave?"

"Only if necessary." Tyr shrugged casually. "I trust it won’t be necessary."

They stared at each other for a moment as if Martin had forgotten Harper, and after a moment, Martin shrugged. "Just catching up with an old...." He looked back at Harper, bared his teeth in something approximating a smile. "An old friend."

Harper didn’t respond. Tyr glanced at him briefly, arched an eyebrow at Martin. "I believe he indicated that he was busy."

"You his bodyguard?" Martin’s eyes seemed to have come to life. Tyr didn’t respond, just gazed at Martin until Martin shrugged again. "Fine. I’ll see you around, Shame." Vicious sharpness to the name.

Again, Harper kept his silence. Marveled that he could hear that name and not react. Bannon was dead and turned to basic chemical components. The boy who had run away no longer existed. 

The only sound was Martin’s footsteps as he went to the exit. A quick look back and then Martin was gone.

Tyr looked after him for a moment. "You would be wise to avoid that one." Mildly. "I’m not at all certain he’s sane."

Harper released a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. "Tell me something I don’t know."

Tyr turned toward him, arched an eyebrow. "Ah. I came down to see if you required any assistance."

Harper shook his head, pleasantly surprised. "Nearly done. We can have them send the containers over to the dock when I get done with the chips."

"Fast work." 

Was that a compliment? It seemed unlikely, but Tyr was hard to read. He nodded, and picked up the manifest again. "So far, so good. Nothing faulty, everything’s good."

"It seems our esteemed commander made a good impression after all." Tyr closed one of the containers, pressed the control and watched it seal. 

He glanced up briefly, nodded. "Yeah, like Beka says, Captain Terrific usually does." But he said it without bite, managed to say it without a stupid grin. "Maybe it’s the High Guard mystique."

Tyr’s expression suggested amusement. "That’s unusually cynical of you, boy, considering your, ah, position."

He felt his face get hot. "That’s personal. This is business. The two don’t mix."

One corner of Tyr’s mouth lifted. "I had noticed." 

He blinked. Had Tyr just admitted something? Like maybe he’d been wrong? "Good." He went back to testing, let his face cool by focusing on work.

"His high-mindedness must be wearing off on you." 

He looked up sharply, but Tyr’s expression was still amused. Not unkind. Not... whatever it was Tyr’s expression usually was when talking to him. "Which means?"

"You don’t take advantage of it." Inviting Harper to comment.

"Okay, bear with me, I thought you believed that I was."

Tyr shrugged. "I’m wrong. Occasionally."

He nearly fell down. "Oh. Well. Yeah." Fought the urge to howl with laughter. 

"It happens. Rarely." Tyr gave him a long look. Daring him to comment.

"Happens to the best of us," he managed to say cheerfully, and put the lid on the container, pressed the control. "There. That’s done. You can take off if you want."

"I’ll wait." 

Weirder and weirder. Shrugging inwardly, Harper nodded. "Well, then, you can help me shift these babies to the conveyor tube. Sooner they’re loaded, sooner we’re out of here."

Surprisingly, Tyr agreed.

Would wonders never cease.

  


* * *

Trance appeared back on the Maru while Dylan was scrolling through legal agreements and transmitting them to Rommie for her expert eye. "I sent Tyr down to help Harper," she told him cheerfully.

He nodded absently before the words penetrated, looked up at her sharply. There was something just a little too... careless about her tone. "You did?"

"Uh huh." Blinding smile. "You know, to give Harper a hand."

The trouble was, he could no longer be sure what was merely harmless whimsy or concern versus presentiment or whatever the hell Trance’s ability was. "Was there a reason for that?"

"It seemed like a good idea." She smiled again and vanished down the corridor.

He sat for a moment longer, then sent the documents on high speed transmit; he could read them later, Rommie was better at translating legalese, and about a thousand (or more) times faster, and it just somehow set off his alarms when Trance was... winsome. 

Perhaps Tyr was affecting him more than he’d realized.

He ran into Beka on the dock; she watched the conveyor tube console registering the loading of each container into the Maru’s hold. "Have you talked to Harper?"

She arched an eyebrow. "Not since I came up here." She held up a Sparky. "I’m on my way back down, said I’d get him one."

"We’ll go together," he said, and turned her toward the exit from the dock.

"Is there something wrong?"

"Probably not. I’m probably jumping at shadows, but when Trance gets... impulsive, I worry."

Beka grinned. "What did she do now?"

"She sent Tyr down to help Harper. Said it seemed like a good idea."

That sobered Beka slightly. "We haven’t had a speck of trouble this trip, Dylan. I saw the docket, there isn’t any body in port that I know of who has any grudges, and Harper’s working, not making the rounds of the bars."

"I know, I know." He was going to feel even more foolish when they got there to find that there had been no trouble, he knew, but there was something pressing on him, something that felt vaguely dangerous. "Tell me I’m being foolish."

She studied his face. Shook her head. "No, I can’t do that. I believe in intuition and I believe in Trance. Let’s get down there. Deryni’s usually pretty well patrolled, but there have been hijackings."

"Better safe than sorry," he agreed, and lengthened his stride toward the lift.

  


* * *

"So, buy you a drink?" Harper felt good again, rolled forward on the balls of his feet while they waited for the lift.

Tyr looked down at him, smiled faintly. "Why not. Think you can afford it?"

"Hey, I’m a man of simple tastes, I have money to spare." Harper gestured expansively. "Besides, you probably saved me thirty minutes on that loading."

"Fair enough." Tyr looked at the display. "Assuming the lift ever arrives." A little irritably.

"Well, we could always go up the hard way." Harper looked toward the ladder, grinned. Wiggled his toes in his boots. "What is it, ten levels?"

Tyr eyed him. "Think you can make it?"

"Oh, I can make it. You might have a little trouble, you know, hanging around on Andromeda, you might have gotten out of shape."

Tyr promptly cuffed him.

He supposed it was meant to be playful, but it left his ears ringing. He laughed anyway, reeled a little, and then Tyr abruptly pulled him down to the floor.

"Get down, you fool!"

His ears were still ringing; it took him a moment to realize that was because someone was firing a weapon. Maybe several someones. At them. "What the _hell_!!"

Tyr pushed his head back down again. "Someone is shooting at us." Grimly. "I suspect this has something to do with your old friend."

"He’s no friend of mind." Harper edged toward the protection of the bulkhead, hand closing over the butt of his gun. "He’s a fucking psychopath." More shots, and he ducked, thinking of ricochet, but he was damn glad of Dylan’s High Guard toys.

"We’ve already established that." Tyr peered briefly around the corridor during a lull, aimed and fired. "And he’s not alone."

"Great." This might explain why the lift hadn’t arrived. "Bastard. Okay, so we climb."

"There’s a sensible thought." Tyr’s tone was scathing. "Shall I just paint a target on your back?"

"You got any better ideas? Something tells me the lift isn’t going to show up, and we’re at a dead end, they’ve got the mobility, and I am _not_ sticking around to find out how good these guys are with a gun."

Tyr’s expression was grim. "You have a point." His jaw clenched. "I suppose it’s the best of a set of bad options."

"I’m not a bad shot, Tyr, but a marksman, uh-unh."

Tyr peered around the corner again, aimed and fired. "I am. Unhappily, we have no way of knowing precisely what their ammunition supply is, and we are limited to what we’re carrying."

"Speak for yourself, I’m limited to what’s in my cartridge." His heart was hammering ridiculously, he was scared out of his wits, and he was exhilarated as hell. Bring it on, he thought crazily. "So, we climb or what?"

Tyr sighed, reached into his belt and pulled out a small rectangular device. "First, we slow them down, and then we climb." He gave Harper an assessing look. "To the next level, at least."

"Done." 

Tyr popped a button on the device, swung his arm and pitched it down the corridor.

Harper bounced up, leapt and caught a rung on the access ladder, headed upward as fast as he could, pausing only to reholster his gun. He went faster, then, heard Tyr’s breathing beneath him, and kept going, fighting the urge to laugh. It was adrenaline, that’s all, he knew it, he’d been here before, and damn well told, there was the next level, coming right up.

He leapt, hit the floor and rolled up to his feet, reached for his gun and turned--

\--the world flared too bright, and then went black and he was going down, down, down.

  


* * *

The lift opened and Dylan immediately reached for his force lance, Beka went for her gun. Something had exploded, doing a fair amount of damage to the corridor, and they were by god fortunate that it hadn’t ruptured the bulkhead and vented this level.

"What the _hell_ ," Beka said, sweeping her weapon as she edged out of the lift.

He was going to wring Trance’s neck. They edged out together, covering each other, and there was a crumpled figure at the foot of the access ladder.

It was Tyr, bloodied, but groggily trying to haul himself upright. 

"Goddammit!" It came out in a roar; he was kneeling beside Tyr in a heartbeat, Beka beside him. Tyr was bleeding from the shoulder, and something had grazed his head, there was blood in the dark braids. Head wounds bled, he knew that, and Tyr was conscious; he put pressure on the shoulder. "Where’s Harper."

Tyr hissed at the pressure, closed his eyes briefly. "I don’t know-- I believe it was someone Harper knew, he called him by his first name."

Beka looked at Dylan. "Seamus? Nobody calls him Seamus. He doesn’t like it."

"Not Seamus, some familiar form--" Tyr winced. "Damn. They must have had the upper level covered as well."

Dylan’s stomach rolled sickeningly. "Shame?"

Tyr looked at him, sensing something. "Yes, I think so."

He hauled Tyr up with Beka on the other side. "Bannon’s dead, Beka. It’s got to be Bannon’s former playmate."

Beka’s expression was bewildered. "Who?"

Later, he could be grateful for Harper’s trust of him. "Someone named Martin."

"Yes." Tyr got his feet under him, "Go, I’m fine, I can make it."

He let Beka deal with the pressure, touched the pad at his wrist. "Rommie, I need you to see if you can isolate Harper’s signal. We need to locate him immediately."

"Signal?" Beka frowned at him. "What--"

"I stuck a transponder in his belt after the last time." Dylan held her gaze, making no apology. "I’d forgotten about it, actually."

Her mouth opened. Closed.

Tyr laughed weakly. "Wise of you. That boy has some very worrying enemies." He was in pain, obviously, leaning a little on Beka. 

"Come on, we need to get you to the Maru." Beka wrapped an arm around Tyr, guided him toward the lift. 

"Level six, section AT," Rommie’s disembodied voice was terse. "He appears to be unconscious."

Dylan took Tyr’s other side, manhandled him into the lift. Hit the button. "Beka, get Tyr to the ship."

"You can’t go in there alone." Her tone was clipped.

"I can make it to the ship." Tyr gritted his teeth. "Don’t waste precious time, Beka, this man Martin isn’t quite sane, I should not like to lose our very talented, if annoying, engineer."

Dylan was much in sympathy with that sentiment. He watched the lift console impatiently. "How bad is it?"

Tyr laughed shakily. "It’s only a flesh wound."

Beka made a choked sound, looked more closely. "What hit you?"

Tyr ground his teeth. "Shrapnel. Not a bullet. Once they had Harper, they returned my favor, I barely rolled out of range in time. I tell you, I can manage, just go after him."

Dylan nodded. 

The lift hissed to a stop, opened and Beka moved out, sweeping the area again. "This is sixth level, we’re over one section." 

"Stay here," Dylan told Tyr roughly. "And keep the goddamn lift here if you have to shoot anyone who tries to move it."

Tyr’s teeth showed briefly in a savage grin. "You may be certain of it."

They moved down the corridors then, covering one another, and god, god, he hoped to all forgotten gods that they got there in time.

  


* * *

"You know what this is, Shame?" 

Martin. Oh. Yeah. Harper opened his eyes blearily. Stunner fire was the last thing he remembered. But... he felt the headache he remembered from the last time, but there was something else, he felt-- he felt stoned on top of it.

Martin waved a small CD in front of his eyes; the movement made him queasy. "Dunno, Marty. The sum total of your experiences as a love toy?"

Someone laughed, but it was cut off sharply. Martin’s hand moved too fast for him to track, but he felt the slap pretty damn well. Not that it hurt, exactly.

"Not exactly, pretty Shame." Martin hissed the words. "Let’s say it’s not quite the sum total of _your_ experiences as a love toy, but it has some of the more memorable moments."

Okay. He was now officially queasy. "Use that to get yourself off, Martin?"

Another slap. 

"Of course," Martin said, sounding more cheerful, "I’ve added a little something to it. Just a little loop, Shame, to keep the thing running."

His mouth tasted funny. Like... lemons and vinegar, which was a pretty disgusting taste, and which told him, belatedly, why he felt stoned.

He _was_ stoned. Martin had given him ‘iamon. For the first time, panic wanted to rattle his cage; he was allergic to ‘iamon. Low doses only made him itch; more could kill him, complete and total anaphylactic shock. It was the only thing that had saved him from Bannon’s desire to addict him. He blinked at Martin, processing what Martin had said. "And the reason for this is?" Slurred it.

Martin bared his teeth. "Well, see, Shame, it’s simple. I figure you need a little payback for Bannon. I could just kill you, but that’s too fucking easy. I mean, bam, a bullet to the back of the head, and you’re just out like a light, no pain, no strain, no suffering, can you dig it?"

Martin was such an asshole, he thought blearily. "I’m surprised you can think that far ahead, Marty, delayed gratification."

Another slap. He blinked hard to clear his head, squinted at the CD.

CD. Loops. Recordings of Bannon doing things to him.

"There’s a little virus here, too," Martin told him, happy again.

God, the bastard’s attention span was shorter than his, it’d be funny if it weren’t so sad. 

The word virus passed through his mind, perched next to panic. Virus.

CD. Virus. Loop.

He tried to focus again. "Yeah? I’ve had all my shots."

Somebody laughed again.

"Funny guy," Martin told him, almost affectionately. "This virus basically goes through and wipes out every fucking bit of data stored on your neural net and replaces it with this." He waved the CD again. "All the lovely, lovely moments. In a loop. For fucking ever." Savage grin.

Loop. Virus. CD. Bannon.

Oh. Fuck. "You always were tech handicapped," he said, mouth moving on automatic. "For one thing, if you don’t think I’ve got virus protection on my neural net, you’re dumber than you look. For another, there are no unbreakable loops." Which wasn’t, strictly speaking, true, and the thought of being trapped in an endless loop of those special times with Bannon made his palms sweat. He was itching, too, dammit. 

"You might be surprised, Shame." Martin leaned toward him, a creepy parody of tenderness, cupped his cheek. "When I pop this in, your net is going down, pretty Shame. And you and Bannon will be together. Forever." Cruel smile.

He jerked back, nearly fell off whatever it was he was lying on, tried to roll, but Martin grabbed his hair, laughing.

He kicked hard, connected with somebody and hurt a yelp and curse, turned his head and sank his teeth into Martin’s forearm, kicked again.

Weight bore him down, he squinted, struggled and his head was slammed down on the table, turned forcibly.

Martin’s fingers were cold on his skin, touching the skin around the port. "You’re going to forget everything but this," he said, almost tenderly again. "Everything but Bannon."

He tried to arch, but someone made a very serious attempt to crack his spine, he nearly screamed with pain and terror. He’d never feared Martin. Hated him. Never feared him. Bannon had been the one he’d feared, and now he wondered if he’d always been that stupid. He’d been afraid of the wrong man the entire time, never mind that Martin had been three years younger than him.

"Open it up," Martin said.

He tried to brace himself, to tear himself free. Fuck, if they broke his neck, he’d be better off, and that acceptance lent him new strength, even if the ‘iamon was fucking his reaction time up.

Someone shouted something, and Martin froze, fingers still at his port. He couldn’t tell what was happening, couldn’t make out who was shouting or what they were saying, and if he pushed just a little harder, maybe his neck would snap. He sobbed and tensed his muscles, bracing for it--

And the weight wasn’t on him anymore, instead of dying or hearing the sickening crack of his own spine, he fell off the table, landed painfully on his tailbone. His ears were ringing again, he couldn’t hear _anything_ and everyone seemed to be standing still, not that he could identify anyone. Or anything.

And then Beka was there, hauling him up to his feet, pulling his arm over her shoulder. 

"You’re awful damn beautiful," he told her, still slurred. "Did I ever tell you that?"

"Too many times," she told him. "Shut up, Seamus."

He shut up. Hiccoughed, and shuddered. Some people hallucinated on ‘iamon. He usually just itched. "Are you really here?"

"Shut up, Seamus."

He wished he knew. She felt real. And he was certainly stumbling over his own feet. He squinted. God, that was Dylan, and boy, he looked seriously pissed.

In fact, everyone looked seriously pissed.

Martin appeared to be gone. No, wait, Martin appeared to be on the floor. Harper nearly tripped, got yanked up by Beka and then they were out of the room, the door slid shut and Dylan did something with his force lance.

Pretty red colors. 

He itched something fierce.

Dylan’s arm went around him from the other side and he was over Dylan’s shoulder, and the motion and being upside down threatened to make him sick.

Fortunately, Dylan put him down pretty quick, and then he slid to the floor. They were in a lift.

He peered up at them, blinked and slowly fell over on his side. "‘m allergic," he said, or tried to. "It itches."

"Allergic to what?" Dylan crouched beside him.

"To ‘iamon." He really, really itched. And it was getting harder to breathe.

"Oh, fuck." Beka’s voice was distant. "We’ve got a medical emergency, Rommie, get Trance to meet us, I think Harper’s in anaphylactic shock and Tyr’s bleeding from shrapnel."

Dylan’s hand felt good on his face. "The calavary came," Harper muttered, turning into that touch.

"Cavalry," Dylan corrected, "Harper, focus, listen to me, you’ve got to hang on."

"Sure." If only he wasn’t itching. If only it were easier to breathe. He reached up blindly, caught Dylan’s collar and tried to pull him down, pulled until Dylan’s face was a finger’s breadth from his. "Never was happy before this." Blurrily.

"Shut up!" Dylan sounded angry and desperate. "Don’t you fucking dare, Seamus Zelazny Harper, don’t you fucking dare!"

Boy, Dylan was really, really pissed at him. Funny thing was, he didn’t mind. Even when he had to close his eyes and Dylan yelled at him some more.

And then he didn’t hear much of anything for a while, surfaced some unknowable time later to find himself on the Maru in his own bed.

Not itching, but still stoned.

It was dark, and there was a larger body curved around his, and it felt and smelled liked Dylan, uniform and all.

Not Martin. Not Bannon.

That was plenty good enough for him; he turned and burrowed into Dylan, who promptly enfolded him, and let himself go back to sleep.

  


* * *

Once the anaphylactic reaction had been dealt with, Harper slept. And slept. And slept. 

He slept through the twelve hours it took to sort out the entire disaster with the Deryni officials, he slept through on the Maru on the way back to Andromeda, he slept through being carried off the Maru and to the med-deck, and slept until they’d cleaned the ‘iamon residue out of his system.

Dylan was sitting in med-deck, watching him continue sleeping when Harper suddenly sat up, raked a hand through his hair and yawned hugely. "I’m starving."

For one breath, Dylan considered throttling him, but sanity returned and he went to the bed, hugged him hard instead. "What sounds good?"

Harper drew back. "You still mad at me?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Touched the tip of Harper’s nose. "I wasn’t mad at you," he said, feeling rather humbled. "I was scared witless."

Harper nodded gravely. "Okay." And then Harper climbed into his lap.

Laughing shakily, Dylan held on, put his face in Harper’s neck. Breathed in the scent of Harper, whole and undamaged.

If they’d been even a moment later-- he tightened his arms. He was sure Rommie could have broken the loop and gotten rid of the virus and restored Harper’s net, but... but he wasn’t sure how much of Harper would have been left. Probably more than he feared, Harper was the paradigm of all survivors. Still, it gave him the shakes thinking about it. Thinking about Harper trapped in that hell.

He was never going to tell Harper that he’d seen what was on the CD. He was going to forget he’d ever seen it. He was the only one who had, aside from Rommie, and Rommie had honored his request to erase what she had seen. Harper might find it if she hadn’t, he’d said, and Rommie had agreed.

Harper drew back, studied his face, frowned. "You okay?"

"I’m fine." It was honesty. "You’re fine. Tyr’s fine."

"Oh, jeez, I forgot." Harper scowled. "Fucking ‘iamon. Only good thing is being allergic to it."

Dylan arched his eyebrows. "That’s a good thing?"

"Yeah." Harper leaned in again, took a kiss, accepted another. "Dunno all the ins and outs medically, but it short circuits the addictive process." He shuddered suddenly. "Bannon tried to hook me a long time ago, panicked when I nearly croaked."

"Bastard." He said it with some heat.

Harper nuzzled him. "He’s dead and gone, Dylan. I’m not." Stiffened suddenly. "Hey, where did Trance put my stuff?"

Dylan blinked. "Your stuff? Oh. Your boots are right here, and I think she put your packages in your quarters."

Harper relaxed, grinned. "Good. I was gonna be totally pissed off if I lost my boots, and I got you something."

He poked Harper’s ribs. "You didn’t need to get me anything." But it warmed him anyway.

"Don’t you want to know what it is?" Harper arched an eyebrow.

It was hard to take anything serious with an antic Harper on his lap. "Of course. I’m being patient."

"I can fix that. Think 300 years old, amber color, me sucking it out of my sleeve."

It took him a moment, but he’d spent two days focused on more important matters. "Good god, you found Scotch?"

Harper beamed at him. He wasn’t sure there was anything more important than that, and he kissed Harper, hugged him hard. "You lunatic."

Fairly purring, Harper nuzzled, then leaned back again, eyes wide. "How the _hell_ did you find me so quick?"

Dylan’s face went hot abruptly. Trust Harper to think of it. "Er. Well."

Harper narrowed his eyes. "Yeah? Well what?"

Dylan tipped his head back, looked at the ceiling. "After, ah, Bannon, I slipped a transponder into your belt."

There was a silence.

Harper snickered. "You _asshole_."

He cleared his throat. "It seemed like a good idea at the time." Apologetically.

"Hey, don’t argue with success." Harper leaned back again, surveyed him as if he were a prize that Harper had won. "I am _starving_." Plaintively.

"Tell me what you want," Dylan murmured. "If I can get it, you can have it."

Harper blinked at him, went still. "Yeah?"

Dylan nodded soberly. Subtext was everything, he thought hilariously. "Oh, yeah."

Sudden grin. "Be careful, Dylan. I’ve been hanging around Tyr." 

"I’ll risk it." He supposed, in a way, that was a declaration, not that he really believed either of them needed one.

Not at this point.

Harper’s smile was incandescent enough to tell him he was right. "For now, I’ll settle for steak and eggs and...."

Dylan began to laugh. "Let me make a list."

What the hell. The Long Night was cold and endless, and Harper was warm and bright and finite.

They were both going to live forever. He was going make certain of it.

***THE END***


End file.
